


May 10

by lorac1492



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Custodial rights, F/M, Gen, Infidelity, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal thoughts (brief), discrimination toward women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-09-17 22:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorac1492/pseuds/lorac1492
Summary: In Season 3, Episode 2, Ross may have told Demelza that she was not chattel property . . . but he was only speaking of his personal opinion.  Legally, 18th-century English married women had no legal status of their own; they were literally the chattel (non-real estate) property of their husbands.  Children belonged to their fathers; like their mothers, they had no legal independent of their male parents.  Only widows had some limited legal rights--a reason many widows were in no hurry to remarry.Although many spouses valued their partners deeply, this was the legal reality of women and children in England before the mid-nineteenth century.  In fact, Thomas Hardy supposedly based his novel The Mayor of Casterbridge upon the public auction of a woman--complete with halter around her neck--by her husband.Which made me wonder . . . Demelza Poldark was a smart cookie, and knew from bitter personal experience the plight of an abused child in this patriarchal culture.  Could she really be so sanguine that Ross's obsession with Elizabeth would only result in the loss of her marriage?  Would not the very custody of her beloved son be at risk?  I don't think she would wait to find out.  What follows is Chapter One of her story to keep her son.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> In Season 3, Episode 2, Ross may have told Demelza that she was not chattel property . . . but he was only speaking of his personal opinion. Legally, 18th-century English married women had no legal status of their own; they were literally the chattel (non-real estate) property of their husbands. Children belonged to their fathers; like their mothers, they had no legal independent of their male parents. Only widows had some limited legal rights--a reason many widows were in no hurry to remarry.  
> Although many spouses valued their partners deeply, this was the legal reality of women and children in England before the mid-nineteenth century. In fact, Thomas Hardy supposedly based his novel The Mayor of Casterbridge upon the public auction of a woman--complete with halter around her neck--by her husband.  
> Which made me wonder . . . Demelza Poldark was a smart cookie, and knew from bitter personal experience the plight of an abused child in this patriarchal culture. Could she really be so sanguine that Ross's obsession with Elizabeth would only result in the loss of her marriage? Would not the very custody of her beloved son be at risk? I don't think she would wait to find out. What follows is Chapter One of her story to keep her son.

_I should just throw myself fro_ _m the top of Hendrawna Point,_ she thought bitterly.  _Maybe then he'd be happy, bein' able to wed his true love at last._

_Too messy; I'd be bashed to bits.  Prudie would ha' to lay out my broken body, and I canna do that to her._

_Maybe I should just walk out into the water._ For a moment, she closed her eyes as she stood at the ocean's edge, the waves rushing around the hem of her skirt as her feet sank into the sand.  She imagined wading into the surf, her skirts growing heavy with the salt water, the waves taking her as they inexorably drew her into the depths.  She would sink into the water, its arms closing over her like a mother cradling her child . . . . 

Good God; what was she thinking?  Her child.  _Never.  I could never abandon my darling, my Jeremy._  

_Well, death isna an option, then, she thought regretfully._   In truth, she knew that already . . . the brief flirtation with its image was but a momentary indulgence in willing the night's pain to end.  

Demelza dug the heels of her hands into her eyes as acrid tears welled.  _Do na' cry,_   she told herself sternly.  _There be nothing to help there.  Think.  Think._

The sun hovered below the eastern horizon, almost ready to slip into the bluing sky.  _Ross will be home soon . . . and . . . what?  He'll be wanting to explain that he has no choice but to return to his one true love, to return to his class, his people.  Tha' this is his destiny.  And all our hopes and dreams together have been but children playin' house while his true life and love awaited._

_And what of me, who ha' loved and served him so long?  What do I matter?  I be but a scullery wench that didna know her place.  A man of Ross's station will ha' no problem having the marriage set aside.  Wi' the situation in France, there's many here who are fretted by those of my class gettin' above themselves.  I hear the whisperers calling me "trull" and "slut" and worse.  Inded, the aristocrats round 'bout will prob'ly kill the fatted calf upon Ross's return to their fold.  They'll see me as only gettin' what I deserved._

_But what if Elizabeth and Ross have other children?  Elizabeth would want Nampara, for them.  And even if Ross's conscience held true to Jeremy--the son he hadn't wanted or ever favored with his attention--Elizabeth wouldn't want Demelza anywhere in sight.  The great lady would make sure that the scullery maid was sent away._

_Nay, Ross wouldna be so cruel as to take Jeremy from I.  He be fond o' me in his way . . . ._ Not fond enough to not cease mooning over Elizabeth for the last ten years, her thoughts taunted her.  Not fond enough to yield to her pleas to stay home last night.  Demelza cringed as she remembered Ross's arctic voice as he ordered her to get out of his way.  _He won't stay with Jeremy or I now, not now that he has been with Elizabeth._

_In the eyes of the law, children belong to the father.  Women and children be but chattel property,_ she reflected fearfully.  No one could or would stop her own father's abuse years ago; the marks on her back attested to that.  No one could or would stop Ross from asserting his legal rights to their son, should he choose to do so.  

Ice water filled Demelza's veins as she imagined Elizabeth's game.  _Ooh, she'll be sweet as sugar outside and bitter as vinegar inside.  She'll tell Ross that she can be a better "mama" to Jeremy than I, and gi' him all the learnin' and manners that I canna.  Meantime, she'll dandle Jeremy on her lap like a toy so everyone admires her Christian charity, while packin' him off wi' servants when there be no one to watch her.  She already does that with Geofferey Charles, the son she loves.  She'd be sure to isolate poor Jeremy from Ross . . . and Jeremy would suffer a million little snubs and hurts, all tied up in ribbons to look like kindness.  I can hear her:  "Oh, the boy is doing so well, considering what he came from . .  He tries, but it just doesn't come naturally to him as it does to one of our class."  And meantime, my heart will be breaking without Ross.  I canna bear that I lose Jeremy, too._

She wiped her eyes again, then shook herself as she turned toward the path to Nampara.  She said aloud:

"No more bawlin', my girl.  Get movin'.  Ye must make sure that viper canna get her hands on your son.  And Ross . . . well, he made his decision last night.  Ye must go on livin' now.  Ye have your son to protect."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 10th, from Ross's point of view.

Ross Poldark blinked hazily as the sun streamed through the window. Confused, his eyes drifted around the room. Rather than the Spartan neatness of Nampara’s master bedroom, the room he found himself in what looked like a huge marzipan confection—jewel-toned velvet pillows and curtains, gilded wallpaper and ornate Rococo furnishings. “What the hell . . .”

And with that, memory came crashing back. Last night, the letter from Elizabeth announcing her intention to wed George Warleggan, his own rage and lust and hatred churning into violence. And Demelza . . . _God, had he really told her to get out of his way? The woman who had stood by him when he was forsaken by all others, even his family? Forsaken by all others_ . . . the words echoed in his brain. _A long-ago question: “Do you forsake all others?” A memory of Demelza, with flowers in her hair and hope in her eyes as he promised he would cherish only her for the rest of their lives._ Instead, he had thoughtlessly ignored his wedding vows last night.

_Be honest, Poldark. Your actions were not thoughtless, nor did you merely ignore your marriage. You began to forsake Demelza the minute Frances died. Maybe even when Julia died. But this--you could not have destroyed your vows to Demelza any more thoroughly or intentionally. The woman who would have walked with you to the hangman’s noose. You threw her away . . . for this? How will I make her understand?_

Ross stared at the woman slumbering beside her. Even now, she was undeniably one of the most beautiful beings Ross had ever seen, ringlets arranged decorously around her patrician face, porcelain skin reflecting the morning sun. And yet the adoration Ross had nurtured for over a decade had soured. Instead of the angel he had long idealized, Ross saw an ordinary woman—one who was admittedly prettier and more charming ( _manipulative?_ his thoughts gibed) than the norm, but one who lacked the depth of character of his  base-born wife. Would a heavily-pregnant Elizabeth risk her life fishing from a rowboat so that he and his servants would eat? Would she yank a jewel from her neck to keep him from losing Nampara in a drunken gamble? Would Elizabeth subject her ivory hands to chilblains, chopping wood to keep the home warm?

 _No, Elizabeth would have gracefully and uselessly stood by in all cases, waiting for someone else to step in and relieve her of any responsibility, any discomfort. By God_ , Ross thought, _Despite all my rhetoric about the uselessness of my peers, I thought passivity defined Elizabeth as an ideal lady. I dismissed Demelza as only a “miner’s daughter” because she voluntarily did all those things, rather than value her for her bravery and sacrifices. I expected her to be willing and able to suffer while I indulged Elizabeth and her family. It’s a wonder Demelza did not leave me years ago for someone who would fall down and worship her for the woman she is._   Sudden fear filled Ross at that prospect.  _I must go home; I must explain. She will see that I had no choice, not really.  I acted for the best. I’m free of my delusions now._   _Demelza will understand; she has always understood . . . . She will stay by me again._

 _But you’ve never betrayed her like_ _this,_ his thoughts jeered.

Ross slowly began to slide toward the edge of the bed, disentangling himself from his bedmate as gently as possible. Despite his care, Elizabeth stirred.

“Ross.”  She smiled gently, her eyes with their long lashes fluttering like fans. She stretched out a hand, lily-white and soft. “We must talk.”

He quickly began to reclaim his clothes, his boots. “Yes. I know. I must think first.”

“Think? What is there to think about?"  Elizabeth's beautiful face mirrored her confusion.  "We are together, as was always meant to be.  We just need to decide how to minimize the . . . inconvenience."

_No, no, no. This is so wrong, this is not what I thought it would be. . . this is not who I am! You are not my true love. I’ve been a child crying for the moon!_

Ross prevaricated, preferring to avoid even more of a scene than he had caused already. “I must think first. I will . . . contact you.”

Elizabeth’s countenance froze in a fixed smile. “Of course. You must _think_.” In a voice that was not quite a hiss, she continued, “There will be decisions to make, actions to be taken so that we can be together openly.  We want to avoid as much unpleasantness as possible.  But we will be together--that is the most important thing.”

“I must leave before the servants see me.” And Ross fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is more than welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza takes flight.

“Hush, my lover. We be playin’ a game, and must be very quiet.”  Demelza scooped her child from his cot into her arms, shushing his sleepy protests.  “We be going on a trip, and we do not want to awaken anybody.”

“Mama? Want Garrick . . .”

“And sure and he’ll be coming with us.  But we must hurry now.”  Demelza bundled Jeremy into his clothes, dabbing at his face with a damp cloth.  “Come along—we do not want to wake Jud or Prudie.”   _The Paynters cannot tell Ross what they do not know._

“I’m hungry, Mama . . .”

“And I packed us a picnic breakfast!  Won’t that be grand?  Here, see the bag I packed?  We have food and some clothes for later.  Hurry now, we need to catch the coach as it passes at the crossroad.”

“The coach! Can Garrick ride?”

Demelza stopped and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, then smiled brightly.  “Oh, how silly of me.  No, but he can go with us to the coach to say goodbye.”

“He stay with Papa?”

“Oh, Jeremy,” Demelza’s voice broke.  “We have to be quiet now.  If Jud and Prudie awaken, we will lose the game.  Shhhh, my lover.  Please.”

Demelza lifted her son and gathered their small bag.  Tiptoeing to the library, she deposited Jeremy into a large chair, raising her finger to her lips to remind him to keep quiet.   _Although Jud and Prudie be like to sleep ‘til Doomsday, if they drank as much rum as I reckon._ Rumaging in Ross’s desk, she found a few bills and coins.   _There,_ she thought.  _Tis not so much that he will not be able to pay the miners, but enough to get us away.  He cannot begrudge me this.  Tis much less than would be owed me for years of being his housekeeper and cook._

_And mistress,_ her mind added spitefully.  _It seem I were not really a wife._

Demelza took a deep breath as she walked around the room that had been so central to her life.  She ran her hand over the spinet on which she had picked out tunes, discovering a world of music beyond her own voice.  A memory surfaced; she was laughing with Verity as they directed a disgruntled Jud to move the piano.  _She were my first friend among Ross’s family.  Maybe my only friend among them._ Ross’s chair loomed near the fireplace.  Many an evening he had returned from the mine to plop down exhausted, while she tugged off his boots and then stood behind to massage his aching shoulders.   _He feels for the miners so deeply_.   _As if he were born one of them._   And there was the chest with its trove of wonders, including a sea-blue dress . . . .

_What are you wearing? . . . . You were employed as a maid! . . . Take it off!_

Ross’s lips against hers.

_I didn’t take you from your father for this. . . . You know what people say about us.  If we behave like this, it will be true._

_Then let it be true._

Her lip wobbled dangerously before she turned a brilliant smile on Jeremy.   _Nay, I chose to do what we did that night and I regret nothing that came of it.  Love comes at a cost, but is always worth its price.  I have my son because of it._

“We must be quick if we are to win the game.  Come, my darling.”  And they slipped out the door, followed by faithful Garrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am grateful for feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've hesitated to post this for fear that . . . well, for fear no one will like it. But poor Demelza needs a break. She has been so kind and loving--she needs to experience something other than tragedy and heartbreak. So here goes Chapter 4, in which she finally sees a ray of hope.

An hour later, a fretful Jeremy and his mother still stood by the crossroads near Nampara on Bodmin Moor.  Jeremy had long devoured his bread and butter sandwich, explored the moor’s folds nearby, chased butterflies, and thrown sticks for Garrick.  Now, he whined with boredom as the mid-May sun added to his physical discomfort. 

“ _Mama!_ ” he fussed.  “How much longer?”

“Soon, soon,” Demelza crooned, fighting against a tide of tear. _Judas! Where was the bloody coach? It always be here by this time o’ day.  What if Ross were to come home with his news that he now be with Elizabeth?  Maybe he be readying to take Jeremy away to Trenwith right now?_   Suddenly a movement in the distance caught her eye.

“Look, Jeremy! ‘ere come the coach now!” 

The pair watched with mounting excitement, only to be replaced by confusion. 

“That not the coach, Mama.  It looks . . . funny.”

Indeed, the vehicle approaching looked nothing like the sober black stagecoach that usually rolled across the moor.  This . . . thing . . . seemed to be a mixture of coach and wagon, like a small brightly-colored house put upon large wooden wheels.  A pair of mules plodded along, pulling it in their wake.  Yellow stars, moons, and suns adorned its sides, as well as painted flowers and green leaves.  A man with chestnut curls rode on the wagon’s outside seat, the mules’ reins clutched firmly in his big hands.  As the wagon drew alongside an astonished Demelza and Jeremy, a pair of windows flew open.  Three heads, two rather elderly and one young, thrust out to look at mother and son.

“Whoa, Balaam.  Stop, Dinah. Stop, ye nags!” shouted the driver.

The mules and wagon creaked to a sullen stop a few feet past Demelza and Jeremy.  Suddenly, Jeremy giggled. 

“Look, Mama! Look at the little dogs!” 

Sure enough, three tiny white and black heads had appeared with the trio at the window.  They immediately began to yap at Garrick, who started to rise at Demelza’s feet.

“No, Garrick,” she said sternly, pushing her flattened hand downward. “Stay.” Garrick immediately obeyed, though he cast her a dubious look. _Thank God he knows that one command_ , Demelza thought.

“Hello, m’lady!” called the man driving the wagon.  He swept a bow from his seat, flourishing his threadbare hat.  “Here be a wandering troupe of entertainers, working our way cross the moor from hamlet to hamlet.  And what be you and the young gentleman doing at this crossroads?” 

Demelza could not help but smile a bit at the grandiosity of the greeting.  “We await the stage.  Tis usually here almost an hour ago.” 

“And another day or more ye shall be waiting.  We passed it, with a broken axle.  Its driver and passengers had taken the horses and headed back to the last town.”

At the news, Demelza’s resolve finally crumpled. Tears began to flow down her cheeks. 

“Here now! There be no need to weep! Surely a fine lady such as yourself . . .” 

“We must be away!” she blurted.  “We must be away now! I have money . . . we can pay! Please!” 

“But where be ye going?”

“Anywhere. Nowhere. Away.” 

The man scratched his head, then jumped down from his seat.  He strode to the wagon’s window, where a hastily muttered conversation ensued.  Demelza could hear murmurs, punctuated by an occasional yap from a dog. 

“Don’ know . . . all we need is have someone say we stole ‘em . . . well, wouldna be the first time . . . Twasn’t true! We didna’ steal ‘im; ‘e ran away! . . . . looks like a nice lady . . . all the more danger . . . . and with a lad? Where be the boy’s father?” 

The young girl cut in.  “Papa, she looks like she needs help. And didna Mama say we should always help those in need?” 

“Aye, that she did,” responded the driver.  “And once more, Lydia, you are the conscience of this family.  My lady and young sir?” He bowed again to Demelza and Jeremy.  “Prefer ye to ride inside or outside?”

“Inside, Mama! Please! I want to see the doggies!”  

The door at the end of the wagon flew open and the girl called Lydia emerged.  Demelza saw she was a grave-eyed child of about seven.  A little older than Julia would have been, she thought, swallowing a lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. 

Lydia’s smile was luminous as she reached for Jeremy’s hand and led him toward the wagon’s door.  “Oh, I’m that happy to have company.  The ancients are sweet, but they sleep more than they are awake.  And we can play games, and I’ll show you some tricks the little dogs can do.  Their names be Jehu, and Jerusha, and Jonah.”

“A Biblical triumvirate?” Demelza murmured to the driver.

“To go with all the other names in this troupe,” he sighed.  “Me grandpa does admire the Good Book, though he be not able to read it.  The results be curious at times. Now,” smiled the driver, “The lad be fine with Lydia and her menagerie.  Would ye prefer to ride outside with me?  Find out who and what we be? And where we be bound?”

“Yes,” agreed Demelza.  And for that first time on that terrible May 10th, she felt a glimmer of hope that all might yet turn out well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now back to Ross . . .

Ross thundered into Nampara’s yard.   _I must go to Demelza immediately and explain to her.  She will see I had no choice._

“Demelza!” he shouted, as he tossed his reins to Jud.

“She be not here, Cap’n.  She nor the lad either.”  Prudie averted her eyes as she stabbed a wooden clothespin onto the line.  “The Maid had a bad, sad night.  Jud and I, we thought she might need to sleep this morn.  That’s why we be up and about so early, but they already be gone.  We thought maybe _you_   would know where the Mistress and Master Jeremy be.”  She bent to pick up one of Ross’s shirts from the pile of wet laundry.  She perused it, then wadded it up and threw it in the mud.

“Oh, that’s right. Ye were not here last night.”

Prudie picked up another piece of laundry. Satisfied it was Demelza’s night rail, she pinned it to the line.

Jud dropped the reins to the ground.  “See to yer horse yerself. I have better work to do.”

“Now see here,” Ross began. “I was at the mine . . . it is not for you to say . . . .”

“No, it ain’t for me to say nothin’, but I will,” continued Prudie. “I ha’ known you since you was a boy, Ross Poldark, and the way you treat the Maid is a disgrace. Always moonin’ over that fudgy-faced widow o’ your cousin, when the Maid do naught but serve ye hand and foot. Many a time she be the one who puts food on the table and clothes on our backs!  Puts up with yer moods and tantrums!  Ye were a high-spirited child who always wanted your way, but since ye came back from America, ye ain’t acted right in the head. Always angry, or drinking, or fighting, or mooning over somethin’ that isn’t e’en yours. Ye got into trouble as a boy, but twas high spirits then. When ye came back . . . it was like ye was a man possessed.”  She pinned one of Jeremy's shirts beside Demelza's nightrail.

“T'int right, T'int fair, T'int proper!” intoned Jud sonorously.

“How dare . . . you two did not even want Demelza to come here!”

“Aye, and the more shame to us,” Prudie replied hotly. “ And we . . . at least **I** . . . be sorry that I acted so.  At first, I was afeared she would displace us.  Later, I was just glad that she took on so much work and let me idle. Then I saw that we all lived better under her care. And when the babies came . . . .” Prudie sniffled loudly. “Well, she became like a daughter to me. And the little ones like grandbabies. Many a time the Maid say to me, ‘Sit and have a cuppa tea, Prudie. Tis such a help to have you rock the baby so as I can make Master Ross’s dinner ready for him.  My poor husband,’ she’d say, ‘he works too hard takin’ care of us.  Drivin’ himself harder than he do the miners themselves.’ And she ne’er say a word ‘bout how hard she worked ‘erself.”

Prudie’s lip quivered.  “She e’en told me a few days ago I be like the mum she barely remember.”

Jud stared at Prudie. “See ‘ere.  She ne’er said anything like that to me.”

“Mebbe because you’re an old rat-faced codswalloped drunk. . . .”

“That’s enough!” Ross cut them off. “Now that we have established that my wife is much too good for any of us, may we discuss where she and Jeremy have gone?”

Prudie and Jud subsided resentfully. Prudie spoke first, “No, Master Ross. I know not where they be.”

Jud shrugged his shoulders. “Nor I.”

Prudie bent to pick up another piece of wet clothing, then continued, “I did see that a grip-vise be gone, and a few of their clothes.  And some food from the kitchen.  Seems Mistress and little Jeremy gone somewhere.  Away from here.  Away from you.”  She studied the shirt she held in her hands, finding it to be another of Ross’s.  “And I think Jud and I, we be gone, as well.”  She slung Ross’s shirt in the mud to join the first.

“What? You can’t just leave me!”

“Aye, Cap’n. Hear tell they be hiring at Wherry House,” Jud sneered.  “And Prudie and I . . . well, we has our _standards_.” Ross stood disbelieving as the Paynters stalked away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Demelza continues her flight . . .

Demelza’s exalted hopes almost immediately sank. As the wagon’s driver helped her climb onto the outside seat, she spied Garrick sitting forlornly beside the rough road.

“Go home, Garrick,” she called.

The dog sat unmoving.

“Go home, now,” she urged. Surely Ross would feed and house him; although he had never admitted to being fond of Garrick, she had seen him surreptitiously slip treats to the dog when he thought no one watched. _And Ross is never cruel, at least not to animals,_ she thought with a pang. _Only to those who love him._

Garrick continued to sit beside the crossroads as the wagon shifted into movement. He lifted his muzzle toward the sky and howled mournfully.

“Stop! Stop!” Demelza cried, turning toward the driver. “Please . . . I can—“

“Pay,” the man sighed. “I know. You can pay.” He firmly tugged the mules to a halt, then mumbled as he cast his eyes skyward, “ _Mama always said help those in need_ . . . Tabby, what were ye thinkin’? What about yer own daughter and the rest of the family?”

Demelza’s slim hand clutched his sleeve as her eyes again welled with tears. “Please. Garrick . . . the dog . . . he has been my companion for many years. We have looked after each other through many a sad time.”  

The man deflated. “I understand. Dogs are like that—they ensconce themselves in our hearts and will not be ousted. Call him; he can ride on the wagon seat with us.” His voice became stern, “But he canna pester or harm our own little dogs. They be valuable to us, and not just as pets.”

Relief washed over Demelza. “No, no. He’ll not do that. He is not a fighter—thank you . . . .” Demelza jumped down and snapped for Garrick, who joyously bounded to her. “Up here! Come on!” She awkwardly shoved Garrick onto the seat beside the driver.

“Thank you,” Demelza repeated as she regained her seat, burying her damp face into Garrick’s ruff. “He truly is my oldest friend.”

“Hmmm. Yes.” The wagon’s driver sought to redirect the conversation to a less emotional topic. “Well! ‘Tis a long enough ride to Truro, and I plan to pass the time doing what I most enjoy—waggin’ my tongue to an ‘elpless audience. I am Salem, and we are . . .”

“A wandering troupe of entertainers?” Demelza smiled tremulously.

“Exactly! Specifically, Davyd’s Troupe of Musical Acrobats, Mysteries, and Dramatic Performers.”

“Oh, my! What a grand name!”

“And we provide an even more grand show. We be small, but provide a magnificent hour or more of dramatic scenes, humorous skits, dancing dogs, magic, and musical bits. And you be?”

“Mistress Pol—“ Demelza bit back her automatic response. _I canna leave a trail for Ross_ , she thought frantically. _I have stolen his son. I may have borne Jeremy and loved him, but legally he belongs to Ross._

Salem waited expectantly. “Mistress Pol—?”

“Mistress Polly. Polly Green.”

“Ah. Yes.”

A small silence, then Salem continued.

“And the boy?”

There was no help for that; her son was too young to understand being called by another name. “He is Jeremy.”

A high-pitched squeal of laughter floated from the window, accompanied by yaps from the small dogs. Salem smiled. “It seems that young Master Jeremy is relishing the acquaintance of the troupe.”

“Aye,” Demelza agreed in relief. _At least Jeremy is enjoying our “game.” He is not homesick yet._

Despite the driver’s avowed intention to chatter, they lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence. Demelza allowed the harsh beauty of the moor to sink into her, quieting her turbulent emotions. Dark blue and pink milkwort speckled the heath, while wild strawberries bloomed along the road. Other wildflowers blossomed in profusion, dotting the landscape with color. Even from the wagon, she fancied she could smell the ever-present Cornish sea. Demelza closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the worries of the morning to abate. Lulled by the wagon's rocking, she began to doze, exhausted from her vigil of the night before.

“Aye, the moor smells that good, does it not, Mistress Polly?” Salem’s soft voice drifted through her reverie.

Demelza stared at him blankly.

Salem’s whiskey-colored eyes smiled at her. “You need to practice recognizing your name,” he chided gently.

“Judas! Oh! I was . . . I am . . . ” A wave of red flushed her fair skin.

“Nay, do not apologize. And say more about who you be—I cannot lie if I do not know. I be a good judge of character, and you obviously be a woman who cares deeply for others—even a dog. You doubtless have your reasons for your masquerade, and ‘tis not for me to question them. But others may be more inquisitive. So, we shall practice before we arrive at Truro. Is that your final destination, Mistress Green?”

“I had not really thought that far ahead,” Demelza admitted. “I only thought about getting away from where we were.” _And about keeping my son out of that harpy’s clutch,_ she added silently.

She rubbed her temples as she thought furiously. _We canna stay in Truro. It be too near Nampara; I would be recognized. Falmouth? Verity is there; she would take us in._

_And that is one of the first places Ross would go,_ Demelza’s mind immediately countered. _You cannot put Verity in such a position against the cousin she loves so dearly. The same with Dwight or Caroline—they are both too obvious and too close to Ross. And there be no legal protection anywhere should Ross come for Jeremy._

_Where else might she and Jeremy hide? Illugan?_ She shrank from the very thought of returning to her abusive father. Although Tom Carne might enjoy attempting to flout a man of Ross’s station, Demelza had no intention of subjecting Jeremy to his grandfather’s brutal discipline. _What other person might shelter us? The money I took will only last for a little while; I will soon need to find employment somewhere. A farm. A pub. An estate house. But who will hire a young woman with a little child . . . Who will care for Jeremy while I labor?_

“Mistress Green? Polly?” Salem’s voice gently cut through her panicked thoughts. “I do not ask the details. But can you swear to me that you have done nothing wrong? Nothing illegal?”

“I swear I have done nothing wrong. Indeed, wrong has been done against me. But have I done something illegal . . . ?” She shrugged helplessly.

“Ah. A higher moral ground than man’s law,” he murmured. “And how far do ye need to go?”

“As far as we can,” Demelza replied bleakly. “To the ends of the earth, if need be.  We cannot be found.”

“Aye. A beautiful woman with hair like a bright flame. With a small child. And a silly-looking mutt in tow. ‘Twill be easy to hide your path,” Salem said wryly.

Demelza flared, “Garrick be not silly-lookin’!”

“Of all the things to focus upon,” Salem chuckled. “I am afraid he _is_ somewhat comical-looking. But I meant no offense; the ability to amuse be a great asset in our business.”  Salem eyed her thoughtfully. “I need to think on this some more. For now, let us put aside our travails while we journey. We need not look for trouble; trouble usually have no problem finding such as we.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. I've been researching to get details right (hopefully), and my first draft was just too "Demelza runs away and joins the circus." Although I sympathize with that impulse (LOL), I did want something a little more realistic. Hope this fits the bill. As always, feedback is more than appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross begins to realize what the night of May 9th has cost him . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been fascinated by how many issues Graham worked into his Poldark novels: class divisions, gender relationships, the Age of Revolution, the Enlightenment & early Romanticism, the Industrial Revolution, even religious movements. Oh, and a snapping good story on top of that. So here's my next installment of an AU in which Ross suffers more repercussions than having to sleep in the library.
> 
> Oh, and I'm blending canon from the book and mini-series. The book raised the issue of people questioning the paternity of Jinny's son, Benjamin.

Ross stared after the Paynters as they stomped away. _Did Jud and Prudie just tell me that they are too good to work for me?_ His immediate impulse was to find Demelza and tell her of the absurd situation. _She will hoot with laughter and then tackle Jud for his impertinence! I will have to rescue Jud and Prudie from her!_

Harsh reality flooded back. _No, I doubt Demelza will find their actions amusing or impudent._

_Maybe the Paynters are lying about Demelza being gone. Perhaps Jud and Prudie just want to make a point. Yes, that would be like them._ Ross took his time currying the horse, slowly watering and brushing Darkie. _Demelza and Jeremy will be in the house when I am finished. I will explain my—actions—with Elizabeth to her. Demelza will understand; I had no choice. We will move past this unpleasantness. I am a good man, a good husband, a good father. I am not a hypocrite like Reverend Halse who judges commoners like Jim to certain death, or an ogre like George Warleggan who exploits the poor. I am not like that!_

Ross shut his eyes and leaned his head against Darkie. _My God, I am comparing myself to monsters to make myself look better. When did I become so desperate to justify my actions that I must weigh myself against Halse and George? Do I really believe Demelza will think me a good man because I only betrayed **her**? _

A good man. He knew that Demelza had looked to him as a paragon since she was little more than a starveling he had saved from her father’s belt. Ross had warned her that he was volatile and even a bad bet in the marriage market, but secretly he had reveled in Demelza’s admiration. _I took that adoration as my due rather than her gift to me. And I have not only ignored her. I know Geoffrey Charles’ likes and dislikes better than those of my own son. What does that say about me?_

“Things will be different now,” Ross said aloud. “I will be a better provider, make sure Demelza and Jeremy do not go without. I will ensure that she no longer has to work so hard. I will spend more time with Jeremy. Elizabeth will have to see that she no longer comes first in my priorities, but I can care for her and Geoffrey Charles without her sacrificing herself to George. After all, Elizabeth is still my friend.”

_Really?_ mocked a voice inside him. _Demelza will be **so** reassured. Why not go tell her that? _

Squaring his shoulders, Ross walked toward Nampara’s kitchen door. “Demelza?” Ross called as her entered the kitchen. “Demelza?”

No answer. No smell of rising bread; no scent of beeswax being rubbed on furniture. No merry crackle of a fire fighting the morning chill, or the sharp smell of lye soap soaking clothes filthy from the mine. Only silence echoing through the house, the lack of sound almost a noise in itself.

“Demelza?” Ross hurried from one room to the next, realizing as he did that Jud and Prudie had only spoken the truth. Neither Demelza nor Jeremy was anywhere to be found.

Prudie had said that some items were also gone. _What did she say? Some clothes? A bag?_ Ross rummaged through Demelza and Jeremy’s possessions. _I never realized how few clothes they have_ , he thought. _And still I do not know what is missing._ Bitterly, Ross thought of the compliments he had paid Elizabeth for dresses he had funded secretly, how he had encouraged her to purchase luxuries for Geoffrey Charles. He had assumed Demelza and Jeremy would manage and make do, as they always did. Even his banker had commented on the disparity.

_Perhaps Demelza has taken Jeremy to Nampara Cove. She loves it there; she goes whenever she is disquieted, as she is certain to be after last night. Maybe she only packed Jeremy a change of clothing . . . ?_

Ross quickly followed the path from Nampara to the Cove, breaking into a run as he sighted Hendrawna Point. _Oh, God, surely not . . . ._

A quick glance reassured him. No bodies were tossed upon the boulders or upon the beach. _You fool_ , Ross chided, relieved despite himself. _Demelza would never allow Jeremy to come to harm, much less hurt him herself._

“And she is a survivor,” Ross murmured aloud. “That is one reason you have taken her for granted so badly. You have always known that she is braver than you. Even when Julia died . . . she had to be steadfast for you.”

The thought of Julia’s death, as always, drove a shard of ice into his heart. “If only Demelza had not . . .”

_Be silent,_ his mind said sternly. _You have kept quiet all these years; do not open that wound now._ He consciously shut down his line of thought.

_So where are Demelza and Jeremy?_ Ross wondered as he plodded back toward Nampara. _Perhaps she went to visit someone in the village? Or Dwight? Caroline? Even Verity?_ His mind cringed at the thought of his friends or cousin finding out about his night with Elizabeth. _But I doubt Demelza would say much; she would not want anyone to know of this humiliation. And she would not want to force them to choose between us._

_So, Ross,_ his conscience gibed. _She does not even have anyone in whom to confide. How convenient for you._

_Tom Carne already hates you. Demelza could go to_ _his house for shelter._

No, he rejected that idea immediately. _If she returned to her father’s house, she would be putting Jeremy into his hands. Demelza would never allow that._

As Ross entered Nampara’s yard, he saw a shaggy-haired visitor awaiting him. _Not now . . . ._

“Zacky!” he called, plastering a smile on his face. “What are you doing here? The mine . . . ?

“Is fine, Mister Poldark,” Zack replied solemnly. “’Tis another matter as has brought me here.”

“Mister Poldark? Why the formality today?”

“Well . . . ‘tis a matter of the employment of my Jinny as your maid. She will no longer be able to work for you, what with everything.”

“Zacky?” Ross was bewildered. “What do you mean? Are she and the child well? Do I not pay enough?”

“Well, no, Jinny and her son be well. The wages be fine.” “What then?” “Well, you know how we are but country folk, and people talk. And the area be buzzing with gossip from the servants of Trenwith, and already the Pay—people be sayin’ that Mistress Demelza be gone from Nampara. And it not be proper for Jinny to be working in a house with no mistress and only a master by hisself.”

Ross’s temper flared red-hot. “My affairs are of no concern to anyone else!”

“Aye, sir, they are when they affect others. You may remember that when Jinny’s son were born, there were evil-minded people who spread rumors that he wasna really Jim’s child. And that were when the Mistress were here with her own babe. I willna allow Jinny to be in that position again.”

“It is just a temporary situation. I am sure that Demelza . . .”

“Nay, Mr. Poldark. I’ll not have it.” Zacky’s quiet voice cut through Ross’s rage.

Those gentle eyes bored into Ross’s. “Ross. I have known ye since ye were a boy. I will go ahead and say what is true. Ye be well respected here because of being a Poldark and because of how ye have treated we. But many be afraid of your temper and moods. Ye have been arrested and even put on trial for your life. Ye laughed at the noose and dared the judge to hang ye. There be rumors about smuggling. ‘Tis always a question if our work continue from week to week—and even if ye will be alive a month from now.”

“You make me sound unhinged. In any case, that gives no one the right to pry into my marriage!”

“Mistress Demelza be well loved by all, with no shadows hanging over her. She . . . well, she be one of us. Common people. She keep Nampara running; we know she will be there for us, no matter what happens to ye.”

Ross stared at Zacky. "Demelza is more trusted than I?"

“Ye came back from America with all your talk of the rights of ordinary people, and how ye would make sure we had jobs and food. Ye stood up for folk like Jim. And with your marriage, we all thought it proof that you meant all you said. But this be a small area, and people know all about each other’s business. We do not talk to outsiders or authorities, but amongst ourselves we buzz like bees. People have seen how you cast calf-eyes at your cousin’s widow while your own family goes without. Still, you be one of the gentry and they act different from ordinary folk. ‘Tisn’t for us to question your actions. But you hadna’ left Trenwith this morning before almost all ‘round here knew of it. And people be wondering what it means for them. Wondering if you will leave your common family to go back to your own folk and their ways.”

Zacky continued implacably. “So no, Ross. Ye made your actions our business long ago. We didna care that Mister Francis was unfaithful to his wife; it meant naught to us. But this be more than about ye bein’ with a woman other than yer wife—‘tis about whether ye be abandoning us, too.”

Zacky stopped, then looked at Ross painfully. “As for the other . . . Ross . . . my boy . . . I be ashamed of ye.”

Ross turned away, unable to bear Zacky’s reproving eyes.

“So, no. My Jinny canna come work for ye no more. Ye may decide that you not want me at the mine, but that is the way it be.”

Ross stood silent, then spoke heavily. “No, Zacky. Please continue at the mine—I need you. Now, if you do not mind, I have some matters to attend to.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Demelza and Jeremy make new friends in their flight from Nampara.

The next hour or so of travel proved a strange, almost dreamy time disconnected from the heartbreak of the previous night. Initially, Demelza felt awkward at the exposure of her subterfuge, but Salem nattered easily beside her, addressing her as Mistress Green and even Polly. His laughter rolled out as he commented drolly on the landscape about them, his clownish expressions making Demelza giggle. The sun shone warm as Demelza cuddled Garrick and admired the early summer wildflowers. Salem was intrigued by her comprehensive knowledge of the plants dotting the moor.

“ . . . and that be dog violet. I wish it had a smell. Seems a waste for a flower to lack a perfume,” Demelza pointed to a small purple-blue bloom.

“So what is it good for?”

Demelza laughed. “’Tis beautiful; is that not reason enough for it to exist?”

“My granny would say that beauty is as beauty does.”

“Hmmm. I wish my hus—I wish a person of my acquaintance recognized that. Still, dog violets do good for we. One can eat the young flowers and leaves, or brew them into a tea. When added to soup, it thickens the liquid; will thicken a thin broth.”

“A good thing for hungry people to know.”

Demelza sobered. “Aye. And it seems there be more hungry people than ever now.”

“’Tis the sad truth,” Salem responded grimly. “The rich rule over the poor, men govern women and children, the strong lord it over the weak. Now, landed gentry dispossess their tenants so as to enclose fields. Those poor souls must seek jobs in factories far away, or starve. Matters not to the rich.”

_Ross has spoken of fences being built around many of the great estates not far from Nampara. Does he worry about evictions in Cornwall? We have already seen problems—miners’ uprisings, food riots. Ross has never been able to stand by and do nothing when poor people suffer. If problems worsen will he . . . ?_ Aloud, Demelza asked, “Are you a Jacobin, sir? Ro—I hear ‘tis dangerous to sympathize overmuch with the radicals in France, even in such a remote place as Cornwall.”

“Nay, not really. But I do think it wrong that some people have so much, while others have naught.” Salem scowled, then seemed to consciously shake off his mood. “But let us not worry about matters we cannot change on such a fine day. What is that plant?” he asked, pointing to a yellow flower with reddish buds.

“Some call it Butter and Eggs; others call it Hen and Chickens. There are other names for it, as well.” Demelza’s mouth quirked. “Do you know what I think is its best name?”

Salem raised his eyebrows.

“Granny’s Toenails.”

Demelza laughed aloud at Salem’s horrified face.

“That be disgusting!”

“Aye, and I advise you not to nibble on it. ‘Tis proof of your granny’s saying, because though pretty, it can be quite dangerous.”

“Are you a wise woman, Mistress Polly? Ye speak like my Granny Sheba who are riding in the wagon.”

“Me? Wise?” Demelza shook her head ruefully. “I fear I have been very unwise, at least in many matters. _Especially the choices of my heart,_ she added silently.

“As are we all, at times. But I meant knowledgeable about plants and their uses.”

“I have long loved flowers, especially those that grow on the moor and heath. But, as I have been warned, wildflowers droop and fade quickly.” _As did I,_ she added silently as she lifted her face to the sun. _I were that happy when Ross told me he loved me, when I was carrying Julia. But ‘twas not long before his heart returned to Elizabeth. All seemed to go wrong when Julia died. I live still, but like a tough ugly weed when once I was a cornflower or a bluebell. Their time comes and goes in a season. Elizabeth be like a hot-house rose pampered year-round, all beauty and scent and thorns for the unwary._

Salem pulled the mules to a halt as the wagon neared a small creek. A large rock outcropping provided shade for the wagon, as did a small group of trees. “I think ‘tis time those in the wagon stretch their legs, and for we to have a bite to eat. Now, you will make sure that galumphing beast not harass our little dogs?”

Demelza huffed a little in indignation. “He is not a ‘galumphing beast.’ Just because your little dogs are but overgrown rats . . . ! And as I said, Garrick not be a fighter.”

Salem laughed aloud. “Overgrown rats? Perhaps, but they be our best performers. I will let them show you in a bit.”

As he spoke, Salem opened the door to the wagon and lifted down Jeremy and Lydia. He then pulled out a step for the two elderly passengers, escorting them carefully to the ground. The black and white dogs hopped down after them.

“Mama! Lydie showed me the little dogs! They do tricks!” Jeremy was beside himself in excitement.

“Is that right, my lover? Maybe I shall have a chance to see them perform, as well.” Demelza hugged him tightly. _No, I cannot, I will not lose him. He is my heart._

Salem reached up to the top of the wagon and untied a small folding table and chairs. “Here we are. Walk around and stretch your legs, and then we shall have a bite to eat.”

“Stay, Garrick. Leave the other dogs be.” Garrick eyed the tiny dogs suspiciously as they neared him, but obeyed his mistress. The little dogs quickly began to sniff him intimately while Garrick looked at Demelza pleadingly.

“Mama? Why do the dogs smell Garrick _there?_ ” asked Jeremy.

“Ummmm . . .”

Salem laughed and knelt down to put his face to Jeremy’s level. “Why, don’t you know, my lad? Many years ago, all the dogs in the world went to a party. It were only good manners for them to hang their tails by the door, the way we hang our hats. But a fire broke out, and all the dogs went rushing out. They were in such a hurry, they each grabbed the first tail they saw. And ever since then, all the dogs in the world are seeking their own tails that they lost.”

Jeremy stared openmouthed, then burst out laughing as Lydia rolled her eyes and groaned, “Papa . . .”

Just then, Jeremy was diverted by some birds. “Come on, Lydie! Let’s go see!” The children trotted off to investigate, leaving the adults beside the wagon.

“Thank you,” said Demelza quietly. “It is good to see my boy laugh this morning.” _How long has it been since Ross took the time to play with his own son? It has only been ‘Elizabeth this’, and ‘Geoffrey Charles that.’ Since Julia died, it seems Ross did bury that part of his heart._ She suddenly realized Salem was still speaking.

“’Tis nothing,” Salem was saying. “I remember being a wee ‘un when my grandda told me that tale. I swore he were cracked in the head for sayin’ such a thing, and now I tell the same yarn to other children.”

By then, the dogs had established their pecking order. Despite his greater size, Garrick was not at the top.

“I see what you mean,” Salem said to Demelza. “He is not a fighter.”

“No, though he were almost in a dog fight once. But was not of his choosing, but that of villains who would use him for bait.” _Oh, Ross._  she thought to herself. _I thought you a hero then.  And must everything make me think of you?_

Having walked around a bit, the elderly couple returned to take their seats. “Ah, Salem,” sighed the elderly man. “’Tis uncomfortable to ride, but more so to stand. My old bones complain.”

“And would you have it otherwise? Perhaps we should take up jobs in a town? Or on a farm?” queried the younger man.

The old man laughed. “Nay, you know otherwise. ‘Tis the travel and the sights that keep us young.” He peered at Demelza. “And you, young lass? What do you and the boy do here?”

Salem answered for her. “She has given her name as Mistress Polly Green. She and the boy be travelers who were not able to catch the stage to Truro. And this,” he turned to Demelza and indicated the old man, “be Grandsire Davyd. He be the founding member of our troupe. And finally,” Salem bowed to the old woman, “Granny Sheba.” As he spoke, Salem deftly set up the small table before his now-seated grandparents. He reached back into the wagon and pulled out a basket, from which he took plates, a knife, a loaf of bread, and cheese and sausage.

Demelza shook her head in amazement as Seth produced another folding chair for her. “’Tis like a magic trick, how you reach in the coach and pull out things. Dogs, people, furniture, food . . . .”

“Aye,” Salem nodded. “That is the essence of magic, having everything in its right place.” He stuffed a piece of sausage in his mouth.

“Salem! Manners!” the old man scolded. “You know we must give thanks.”

“I always feel more thankful after I eat, Grandda,” Salem grumbled. “Seems we could say grace then.”

Granny Sheba sighed loudly. “I side with Salem on this,” she opined. “And what about you, lass? Are you as God-ridden as my husband, or are ye of a more earthly bent? Must we pray before we eat?” Her dark eyes, wise with age, studied Demelza.

Old Davyd smiled serenely. “We have had this discussion many times,” he admonished gently, “and you you know I will win. Besides, what will our guest think? Bow your heads.”

Demelza lowered her head as her stomach growled loudly. _Judas!_ she thought silently as she girded herself for a lengthy sermon.

“Lord, thank you,” Davyd whispered. A small pause followed the words. “Amen.”

Demelza found herself still staring at her lap while the others reached for their plates and food. _That was it?_

“Hmmmmph,” pouted Sheba. “I still think grace could have waited until after we ate.”

“Or been said while we ate,” countered Salem. “Seems the Good Lord would understand.”

“Oh, He does,” smiled Davyd. “Still, manners be important, especially when we be so blessed with sun and sky and each other.” He turned to Demelza. “So what takes you to Truro on such a fine day?”

Salem stood as he swallowed quickly. “I promised Mistress Polly that I would show her what our dogs can do. Shall we? Jeremy! Lydie!” he called. “Let us introduce our dogs to our guests!”

Jeremy ran back to Demelza and climbed in her lap. Davyd pulled a fiddle from the coach while Lydia produced a tin whistle. Together, they began to play a merry tune. Jeremy’s little mouth popped open as Salem twisted and turned, holding out rings for the dogs to leap through in an intricate pattern. The act ended with Salem juggling multi-colored balls and which he tossed to the dogs, who deftly caught them and took them to Lydie. At the end, everyone—including the dogs—bowed to Demelza and Jeremy, both of whom clapped vigorously.

Garrick sat at Demelza’s feet through the performance, looking askance at the acrobatics of the other canines. “Nay, Garrick,” Demelza laughed as she patted him. “We do not expect you to do the same.”

Salem enthused, “That is but a part of the entertainment we provide. Granda Davyd also declaims poetry, and is teaching Lydie to play the fiddle. Granny Sheba tells fortunes.”

Demelza turned to the older woman. Now that she looked at Sheba directly, Demelza noted the elderly woman’s enduring beauty. Great swoops of black hair streaked with white wings framed her almost feline face. Demelza was fascinated to see that the old woman had outlined her black eyes, emphasizing their size and color. The exotic effect was far different from that achieved by the painted hussies of Truro. Sheba sat imperiously under Demelza’s gaze.

Demelza ventured, “My hus—I have an aunt who reads cards. Do you do that as well?”

Sheba waved a hand dismissively. “I use cards sometimes; they set the atmosphere for those who need props. I prefer to read hands. Let me see yours.”

Jeremy, thinking the old woman spoke to him, leaned forward from his mother’s lap and placed his little palm in Sheba’s outstretched hand. Demelza laughed softly.

Sheba took the toddler’s hand, but her smile faded as she gazed at his palm. She dropped it quickly.

“There’s nothing here,” she said brusquely. “He’s too young for life to have inscribed its will on him.”

“Hah,” jabbed Old Davyd. “More like the babe has no clues for you to decipher.”

Obviously stung, Sheba took Demelza’s hand. “Let me see yours.”

Demelza presented her palm. _Salem says she be a wise woman. Well, let us see._

Sheba studied Demelza’s hand, then began to whisper. “I see a man . . . . a dark man. Your husband. Dark hair, dark eyes. A man of the earth.” Sheba’s pupils grew, seeming to swallow the already near-black irises. With a frisson of fear, Demelza heard the old woman rasp, “He is above you in station. You flee him, but not because he hurts you with hand or belt. That was someone else. But the dark man has a passion which gives you pain.”

“Judas!” Demelza cried as she snatched back her hand. “Are you going to tell Ross where we are? He not take our son!”

She jumped up with Jeremy in her arms. Sheba and the others gaped at her in consternation.

“Nay, lass, no one here means you harm!” Sheba sputtered in her normal voice. She turned to her husband. “This is your fault!”

“Me!” Old Davyd protested. “What did I do?”

“You made that dig about me not being able to read the boy’s hand, and that made me show off. You made me do that!”

Old Davyd’s mouth worked soundlessly.

“But how did you know . . . ?” Demelza demanded.

Sheba patted the chair Demelza had vacated. “Sit down, girl, and be at ease. No one is going to betray you to anyone else.”

Demelza perched on the edge of the seat, ready to flee. “But you knew I am married . . . and that he has dark hair and eyes, and has a mine, . . .”

Sheba smiled wryly. “Oh, child, I just see what is in front of me. I see I will have to confess to you. But promise me you will not tell on me or my business will be in ruins.”

Demelza settled back a little into her chair, still unsure. “But how . . . ?”

“Ye are married. Ye have not taken off your ring, and that ring has been there for some years. See the scratches and little dents on it? Your finger has even taken shape about it. Ye do not wear that ring to fool people, but because it belongs there.”

“And my husband being a dark man?”

“Look at your son, my dear. He has your own sweet features, but he did not get that hair and those eyes from ye, did he?”

Demelza shook her head, a little embarrassed at the simple explanation. “But you said my husband is a miner . . . .”

Sheba shook her head. “Nay, girl. I said he was a ‘man of the earth.’ What man is not in Cornwall?”

“Could have been a farmer or fisherman, Granny,” interposed Salem.

“Both of whom are men of the earth, boy. Clean out your ears,” Sheba retorted smartly.

“But how did ye know he is of the gentry?” Davyd queried, his curiosity overcoming his indignation at being blamed for causing Demelza’s distress.

“A little more of a reach, I admit. But look at her hands. A scar here,” Sheba stroked Demelza’s palm, “looks like a kitchen knife left that. And a burn mark—probably from an oven. And here,” she traced calluses across the center of Demelza’s hand, “ _rowing!?_ ”

“Aye. I were fishing. We needed food.” Demelza admitted.

“Well, I did not think you did it for pleasure. You be of working people. But your dress,” Sheba fingered Demelza’s skirt, “this is of good quality. Not fancy silk or satin, but good stuff that a truly poor man cannot afford. I wager you married above you.”

By now, Demelza was thoroughly fascinated by the old woman’s insights. “And how do you know that I not be fleeing a monster who beats me daily?”

Sheba laughed aloud. “No black eye, no welts. Some men be canny like that, and only hit where it do not show. But you have sat happily beside Salem for an hour or more, right easy. You be not afeared of men. No, your man does not beat you.”

“But you knew about . . . his passion.”

Sheba looked at Demelza pityingly. “Poor child. Few women run away from a man who is good to them. Stands to reason that there be something he cannot leave alone . . . or someone.”

By now, Demelza was abashed by her earlier panic. “You make it seem so logical. Aunt Ag—my aunt always makes such a to-do about the power of the cards . . .”

“And I suspect that your aunt sits and watches and puts clues together, as do I.” Sheba’s eyes studied her. “Does she sometimes use the cards to ‘warn’ people? To say what cannot be said otherwise?”

Demelza was taken aback. I _s that what Aunt Agatha does? Act like a cat snoozing in a sunbeam while she watches and listens, then issues warnings like an oracle? Mayhap Aunt Agatha even believes that her warnings are the workings of the cards._

“My Sheba be clever at reading people,” Davyd boasted, his earlier peevishness forgotten as he smiled at his wife. “Ye be a wonder, me love. I be sorry that I twitted ye earlier.”

“And I be that sorry that I snapped at ye, too,” Sheba expressed remorsefully. “After fifty years or more, ye do know how to tweak my nose.”

“Mama!” Bored by the adults’ exchange, Jeremy began a dance familiar to mothers of small children everywhere. “I need to . . . !”

“Behind those trees,” Salem directed Demelza. “Ye have probably seen everyone slip over there.”

Demelza nodded and took Jeremy’s hand. She started to lead her son away, then half-turned back to Sheba. “One more thing . . . you said Ro—my husband was not the one who hurt me; another did. How did you know about that?”

Sheba stared blankly, then smiled. “Child . . . leave me some of my secrets! Do not make me tell all!”

“Mama! _Hurry_!” Demelza frowned uncertainly but yielded to Jeremy’s frenzied tugging.

As they disappeared behind the trees, Salem called, “Lydie! Help Grandda get the equipment and dogs ready to go! We be about to leave!” Salem waited until the two were busy, then bent close to Sheba to whisper, “You are slipping, Granny.”

“What do you mean, boy?” she snapped.

“Grandda is troubled by your Seeing and so you always have good explanations for what ye say. But you could not come up with a reason for that one.”

“Phhhhhttt. Get busy packing the wagon, you impudent pup.”

Salem smacked a kiss on Sheba’s wrinkled cheek. “Aye, Granny. I will. But know that I am a pup that loves you.” Sheba ostentatiously snorted even as she leaned into her grandson’s embrace.

Salem stood. His voice changed, becoming somber. “What of the boy? What did his hand hold?”

Sheba flapped her hand at him. “Nothing. Your old grandda was right. There were not enough clues, and I was peeved.”

Salem looked at her, troubled, while she stared him down.

He yielded first. “All right, then, let’s get back on the road,” he called and strode away.

Sheba closed her eyes and sat still a few minutes. _Oh, Sheba,_ the old woman thought. _Ye canna say a word. That poor little hand. Other readers say the length of the life line means nothing, so I will not consider that. But there was that flash of Seeing. A pitifully young soldier, dark of hair and eye, breathing strenuously as his life bled away. An older man, obviously the younger man’s father, bending over him, clutching his hand.  His voice:  "Oh, Jeremy. What will I say to your mother?” A tear running down the scarred face as the man leaned down to the doomed youth._

The old woman stood slowly. “There is nothing to be done, Sheba. Ye know that fate is fate,” she muttered to herself. _But maybe, if the young woman and her son were to go far away from the man, maybe the Seeing could be averted? Or would a flight be what bring about that fate?_

“Ye cannot change the future, ye old fool,” Sheba whispered to herself as she laboriously climbed back into the wagon. _But can ye stand by and just let it happen?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have sent messages and thoughts of encouragement. You make me want to add to the story. I am sorry it has taken so long to write this lengthy chapter--I wanted to research to avoid anachronisms, and also wanted to craft a readable "bridge" in Demelza's flight. As always, your feedback is awesome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 10--Ross seeks Demelza and Jeremy after his night with Elizabeth.

_God, where could Demelza and Jeremy be?_ thought Ross. _They cannot be in the village. Zacky and the Paynters had both specified that they were gone, who knows where. Jud and Prudie are capable of lying for spite, but not Zacky. He would have said if Demelza and Jeremy were with Jinny or someone else in nearby. And if so many people already know about—_ his mind hitched at the words _—what happened last night—I doubt Demelza would want to add to her humiliation by staying with people close at hand._

_Prudie said there is a bag is missing. So where . . . ?_

Ross hurried to the library and flung open a drawer of his desk. Rummaging inside, he found the money box and quickly counted the notes and coins. _Some money is missing. Not much._ As he registered the tiny sum, his heart smote him even harder. _She made sure that I have enough for the miners to be paid. She took so little. But where and how will she spend even that money?_

_The coach._ Ross checked the mantel clock, one of the few items that had been replaced since the dark time when they sold so many of their furnishings. _The coach to Truro should have passed by the crossroads early this morning. Demelza took enough money to take herself and Jeremy to Truro. It’s the only town in Cornwall of any size with which she is familiar. Once in Truro, she could go to Pasco’s bank for more funds. She probably got a room at an inn._ Relieved at his reasoning, he thought, _At least they will be safe in Truro; people will recognize her, and the Poldark name is known and respected._

_But what if she did not rent a room?_ his mind taunted him.  _What if Demelza does not think Truro is far enough away from you and your perfidy?_

_If she got money from Pascoe, she could return to the livery stable to purchase travel elsewhere. She might go to Verity in Falmouth or even Caroline in London. She would dread facing either of them, but she might do so since neither could yet know about—about last night. Indeed, she might not even tell them—only let them think she was lonely for their company.  If she and Jeremy went to Caroline or Verity, I can find them and explain to Demelza that the incident did not mean anything.  It does not alter the fact that we are still husband and wife. And what husband does not make a mistake occasionally?_ Still, the thought gnawed at Ross. _I know she is hurt and angry, but why would she flee with our child? Why not face me and give me a chance to explain?_

_I must find Demelza and Jeremy and bring them home._

Ross grabbed some money and stuffed it in his pocket, jammed his tricorn on his head, and strode out the door. _Even though I’m starting later than they did, Darkie and I can make twice the time of the coach. I will get to Truro soon after it arrives with Demelza and Jeremy. God willing, there will be no time for her to make other travel arrangements. We can rent rooms at the inn; I’ll talk to her, calm her. I will explain that after all this time, after my history with Elizabeth, I really had no choice. I am free now; Elizabeth is just a friend, and all can return to what it was when Francis lived. Demelza is a reasonable woman; she will understand. We can even stay in Truro a few days until this all blows over._

As he entered the barn, Ross came to a halt. “Judas!” he said aloud, Demelza’s favorite curse coming automatically to his lips.

The barn was a mess. The farm animals lowed, baa-ed, and oinked. The chickens clucked furiously. Demelza’s horse neighed miserably.

_None of the animals have been fed. Or milked. Or taken to their pastures. I cannot leave the animals like this. They are in agony, and some might even die before I return._

_And I am hungry, too._

Ross headed back toward the house, scooping his shirts out of the mud on his way. _Damn Prudie._

Nothing was left of the bread that Demelza had baked the day before. Perhaps Demelza had taken it for herself and Jeremy. Certainly the Paynters had devoured anything left. Ross automatically checked the rum and whiskey. Yes, the Paynters had consumed most of his alcohol. Demelza’s port was untouched.

_Damn Jud and Prudie._ The night before, Ross had stormed out of the house before eating supper. Nothing seemed to have been saved from that untouched meal.

_Damn George. Damn Elizabeth. Damn Zacky for all that talk about what this means to the people around here._

_And damn my dark rages._

Ross finally found a hardened wedge of cheese. He moodily chewed on it and washed it down with some sour cider. He then headed out to the barn to care for the animals.

A few hours later, Ross was ready to leave the barn again. _I have not done this kind of work since I came back from America. And even then, I directed Jud and Prudie to do much of it. So, let’s see . . . chickens fed? Yes. Horses? Yes. Cows? Yes. Everything else? Yes. And blast it, I will need to come back tonight to undo all I have done this morning. No staying at an inn. No sweet reconciliation with Demelza, or time away with Jeremy—even if I can find them and bring them home._

_Wait . . . where’s Garrick?_ Ross looked around the barn, suddenly aware that he had not seen the dog since he returned.

A quick search failed to uncover Demelza’s dog. _That wretched dog. Where can he be? She could not have taken him on the coach. Unless she bribed the driver . . . which I do not doubt her willingness to do. She loves that cur. But she took so little money—could she afford such a bribe with the little she took?_

_I would be glad if Garrick is with them. Despite my grumbling, I know that dog would die for Demelza and for Jeremy. Oh, God, am I to learn about loyalty from a **dog**?_

_Well, no hope for it now. Either Garrick is with Demelza and Jeremy, or he is out frolicking on the moor. I must leave now and retrieve my family._

With that, Ross swung onto Darkie’s saddle and began galloping toward Truro.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza and Jeremy continue their travels . . .

“All right, then, let’s get back on the road,” Salem called as the roadside picnic drew to an end. “Next stop, Truro!”

_I be known in Truro,_ Demelza thought desperately. _If I ride into town on top of this brightly-decorated coach, all the folk will note and talk. And soon enough, that chatter will reach Ross, and he will come to take Jeremy. No, that cannot happen. I must stay invisible as long as possible._

“Salem,” she queried. “I be weary. Do ye mind if I ride inside the coach? Is there room?”

“Aye, Mistress Polly,” Salem answered. He looked at her keenly. “There be room inside for both ye and yer babe. Get some rest.”

Old Davyd volunteered, “I’ll ride on the outside bench, lad. I have a fancy to see the moor in such fine weather.”

“And I be glad of the company, Grandda. Up ye go,” the younger man said as he boosted Davyd to the coach seat.

Demelza found herself handed into the coach, much to the delight of her young son and Lydia. Sheba already snored gently in the corner. “As I said, my grandparents sleep more than they are awake,” Lydia said softly. “’Tis a treat to have company, Mistress Green.” She stole an admiring glance at Demelza from under lowered lashes. “Ye are so beautiful.”

Demelza laughed, flattered despite herself. “And ye are very kind, Lydia. I fear I have seen too much sun and wind to be beautiful. I be but a faded wildflower.”

“Nay!” protested Lydia earnestly. “Ye have the prettiest hair and eyes!” She hesitated, then added shyly. “Ye remind me of my mother.”

“Oh,” said Demelza, suddenly understanding. _I am probably about the age of her mother, whoever and wherever she be. Lydia sees her mother, not a stranger._

“Not that she really looked like ye,” hurried Lydia. She lowered her eyes again. “It’s just . . . Momma died a year or so ago. I do miss her that much.”

“I see,” Demelza murmured. “I lost my mother when I was about your age.” _I barely remember my mother, but for years, I saw her everywhere, in every woman. When I first met Prudie, I thought of her as a bullying slattern. Now, she be like a mother to me, calling me “Maid” and taking my side when she scolds Ross or Jud. Prudie acted as a grandmother to Julia and is the same to Jeremy. I miss her already._

_Poor Lydia. Do we ever outgrow the need for a mother?_ “I am sorry for your loss, Lydia,” Demelza said softly.

Jeremy suddenly leaned toward Lydia. “You can share my mama today,” he said generously. “She gives good kisses and makes owies better. See?” He held up his skinned knee for Lydia’s inspection.

Lydia and Demelza caught each others’ eyes, laughing. “Thank you, Jeremy,” replied Lydia. “It is kind of ye to share your mama.”

Jeremy popped a thumb into his mouth, a sign that he was tiring. “Mama,” he whispered as he nestled close to his mother. “Tell a story.”

“Have you ever heard about Jack the Giant Killer?” began Demelza. She noted that Lydia edged closer, and surreptitiously made room for the girl. _Poor motherless child,_ she thought. She launched into a rendition of the Cornish tale, discretely sanitizing the more gory parts. Soon enough, rocked by the motion of the wagon, both children had their heads in her lap.

Demelza’s voice trailed off once she was sure the children were asleep. _Judas!_ she thought. _We have so little time before we get to Truro. I am so tired. I want to go to an inn and rent a room for Jeremy and I, and just lie down and sleep for days. But we cannot. Mayhap we will go to the stable and purchase passage for another town? But the folk there know us; Ross could find out our destination immediately._

_Maybe Ross would not bother. Maybe he’d be that glad to be shut of me, now that he has his precious Elizabeth. He can move to Trenwith and build a love nest with her_ , she thought sourly. _‘Tis what he always wanted._

_But will he let go of Jeremy so easily? Ross’s people will condone him casting off his wife the scullery maid, but this be his legitimate son. Even if Ross does not want me, people would shame a man who treats his own son so shabby._

_Or maybe he and Elizabeth will just take steps to declare Jeremy a—_ her mind stuttered at the word _—a bastard. A by-blow with no legal claim upon his father._

“Nay,” Demelza whispered aloud. “Ross would not be so vile to him.” She shook her head. Ross could be capable of monumental idiocy, but deliberate cruelty to people he considered helpless was not one of his sins.

But still. If it was what Elizabeth wanted . . . could she trust his much-vaunted sense of honor in the face of his desire to please Elizabeth?

Demelza sighed and looked up to find Sheba scrutinizing her closely.

“Judas!” Demelza yelped softly. “I thought ye were asleep!”

“Playing possum,” Sheba replied coolly.

“Ma’am?”

Sheba smiled a little. “An expression of my husband’s. He was in America many years ago during one of the wars against the Frenchies. He said there is an odd animal there—something like a huge snarly rat. When it wants to escape the notice of others, it pretends to be dead.” She shrugged. “I was not really acting dead, but one can learn much by being invisible. I was tired anyway, so a little cat-nap was in order.”

Demelza was slightly peeved. “And what did ye learn, ma’am?”

Sheba’s answer was sincere. “That ye are a good mother. That ye have a good heart; ye care for others, even a strange child. And ye are worried about what the next hours will bring.”

Demelza swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Aye, ma’am. I am worried.”

“The boy’s father? Your ‘dark man’?"

There seemed no point in hiding anything from this prescient woman. “Aye. He has returned to his own true love, and I fear he will take our son with him.”

“What if it is not the boy only that he wants? What if he wants ye back, as well?”

Demelza chortled humorlessly. “I cannot believe that. He has adored this woman since he was but a boy. Fate kept them apart. Fate and bad timing. But now the way is clear for them to be together. He made it clear to me that I have no role in their future.” Demelza shut her eyes in sudden pain as memory stabbed her.

_Please get out of my way._ Ross had ground out the request between clenched teeth, his tone belying the surface civility of his words. ** _Please get out of my way!_ **Demelza had no doubt that had she not done so, Ross would have knocked her to the floor in his furious haste to go to Elizabeth.

“If he wanted me to return—which she would never allow—it would be to continue as his maid, housekeeper, and cook. She has his heart, while I have been merely . . . convenient.”

_Reclaiming Nampara. Making love in the big bed. Ross’s enraptured face at Julia’s birth. The babe’s death and Ross’s trial. Jeremy’s baptism. Despair. Triumph. And then Elizabeth beckoned, and Ross tossed all that away._

A pause, then Demelza opened her eyes. “And besides fearing the loss of my son, there is something else. I now be weary of being second-best.”

Sheba studied Demelza before she replied. “Perhaps it be best if ye travel with us a while longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and encouragement. I would have given this up long ago if it weren't for you. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross seeks Demelza in Truro . . .

“For the love of God, Ross, what idiocy have you committed now?”

Ross flinched at Harris Pascoe’s biting words before attempting a rally. “What do you mean, Harris? I simply asked if you know where Demelza and Jeremy are. I have not seen them since yesterday. . .”

“Your wife is a lovely, temperate woman who has stood by you through hell and high water. I do not think she would suddenly disappear without cause, nor do I think you have merely misplaced her. So I have to wonder: what have you done now? No, no, do not tell me.” Pascoe raised his hand to cut off Ross’s protests. “I do not want to know really; ‘tis a rhetorical question.”

“You are married, Harris. You know how it is. Husbands and wives sometimes have disagreements.” Ross tried to shrug nonchalantly.

“Yes, and through the years, my wife has sometimes gone to ‘visit’ her parents or sisters after we have had an argument. But I always knew where she was. She and our children never simply disappeared.”

Ross shut his eyes in despair, unable to counter his banker’s shrewd eyes. “Harris . . . I do not know what to do. If you can, help me find them. Please.”

“Tell me why you think I might know her location.”

“I was—away—last night. When I returned this morning, Demelza and Jeremy were gone.”

Pascoe looked at Ross steadily, his face carefully neutral. “And?”

“Jud and Prudie said they left sometime before I returned. A small bag, a few items, and some money were missing. I checked the area around Nampara—my wife and son are not there. Even the villagers do not know where they have gone.”

Pascoe gazed impassively at the younger man. Ross thought, _My God, right now he looks at me as Reverend Halse did at my trial for inciting riot. But this time, I am guilty, despite all my excuses._

Ross swallowed. “I thought they might have taken the coach to Truro. It was scheduled to pass the crossroad near Nampara early this morning.”

“Did they do so?”

At that, Ross’s composure broke. “No! I went to the stable here in Truro, expecting to find Demelza and Jeremy or at least learn their whereabouts, but was told that the coach had broken down shortly after departure. It never even reached the Nampara crossroad!”

Ross took a deep breath to steady himself. “Farmers often use that road to come to market. We are well known in the area; it is possible someone who knows us gave Demelza and Jeremy a ride here to Truro. It is the only town of any size with which Demelza is familiar.”

“And why would you think I would know where they are now?”

Ross looked down at the carpet, studying its swoops and swirls before answering. “Demelza took very little money. I thought she might have come to you to draw upon our account for funds.”

Harris Pascoe sighed and shook his head. “No, Ross. She did not come here. I wish she had done so. It sounds as though she could use help.” He looked at Ross, troubled. “I have known your family for many years, so please understand that my words are not those of your banker, but of your father’s friend. And of your friend.”

Pascoe paused, searching for words. “Let me preface this by reminding you of something you once said—something that I found shocking. You told me that you do not need to provide for your wife or even your son in the event of your death because Demelza is a ‘miner’s daughter’ who knows how to survive—unlike others for whom you have lavished care. I found that incomprehensible then, and think it even more unconscionable now. In my opinion, I think Demelza has grown tired of merely surviving. Perhaps she wants to be cherished as a wife. And for her child to be valued as your son, rather than dismissed only as _her_ dependent.”

“I have said nothing about this before, Ross, because I thought it none of my business. But you have treated that fine woman like a stray cat to whom you might toss some scraps—or not—as you pleased. In retrospect, I think I should have spoken up and shaken some sense into you.”

Ross forced himself to look his old friend in the eye, as much as he wanted to turn his face in shame. _My God, first Zacky and now Harris. Is there no one who did not see my iniquity long ago? Is there no end to the people I have disappointed? Since Julia’s death I have held Demelza at arm’s length. And Jeremy? I have never embraced him to my heart as I did his sister. It hurt so much to lose her; I have been afraid of experiencing that pain again. I blamed . . . **not now.**_ _Do not think of that now._ Aloud, he said, “I am beginning to understand the enormity of my foolishness, Harris. Pray God it is not too late to rectify it.”

A few minutes later, Pascoe escorted Ross through the front doors of the bank to Truro’s busy main street. Ross clasped the older man’s hand firmly.

“Harris, please. For the love of God, if you see Demelza and Jeremy . . .”

“I will see them safely housed and cared for. And I will contact you immediately.”

“I only wish . . .” A heavy wagon rolled by on the cobblestoned street, drowning out the rest of Ross’s words.

Harris Pascoe raised his voice over the market noises. “Act on those wishes. Do not let them slip away from you again.”

“I once declared to—someone—that Demelza was the love of my life. I seem to have lost sight of that. Now, I want to be reunited with her. And I want my son, as well.”

“Maybe she has returned home by now, Ross. I will continue to keep watch here.” Pascoe laid a comforting hand on Ross’s shoulder before turning back into his bank.

“Cap’n Poldark?”

Ross startled at his name.

“It is Cap’n Poldark, t’aint it?” A hunched old woman stood close by, clutching a large bouquet of spring flowers.

Ross searched his memory, finally finding a face and name. “Mistress Teague, isn’t it? Your husband worked at Wheal Grace years ago?”

“Aye, sir!” The crone smiled in delight as she peered in his direction. Cataracts covered her eyes, giving them an uncanny silvery cast. “I cannot see so well these days, sir. I thought it was you. But I often mistake people now that my eyesight is so poor.”

“Yes, Granny. What are you doing here in Truro?”

“My husband died, so I be here living with my oldest daughter. I gather flowers and sell them in market to help out the family. Don’t bring in much, but keeps me busy and every bit helps. I just sold some blossoms to a young woman and ‘er two little ‘uns.”

Ross nodded absent-mindedly, barely registering the old woman’s chatter. _Where next? I’ll inquire at the inn, see if Demelza has rented a room. Perhaps they took a meal at the Red Lion. I must be getting back to Nampara—the animals will have to be seen to, and the mine. Where can my family be? Are they safe?_

He finally realized that Granny Teague still talking as she held the bouquet toward him. “ . . . and she made me think that mebbe you would like to take some flowers to your young wife. I ‘member seeing ‘er out gathering them on the moor many a time, back before I came to Truro. She were like a flower ‘erself. And she were always very kind to we in the village, making sure we were cared for.”

Ross took the flowers as he pressed some coins into the wrinkled hand. _How long has it been since I wooed Demelza instead of treating her like a work horse?_ A memory flashed briefly of a pair of stockings given at Christmas and of the ensuing rapture. _Even that gift came about because Prudie needled me after I espied Demelza’s preparations for our Christmas. Since then, though, everything I have done has been for and about Elizabeth.  And then last night--no wonder Demelza has taken Jeremy and gone._

“My wife does love flowers, Mistress Teague. I hope she will be home for me to give them to her.” He bowed to the elderly woman. “I pray you forgive me, but I must be about my business now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that there has been such a delay in posting this. I am leaving a job and taking on another--so these last few weeks have been frantic as I've been twice as busy as usual. I hope you are still interested in this story.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza fears a future without Ross, and maybe without Jeremy.

Demelza sat back from the curtained wagon window, listening to the sounds of Truro’s busy main street. The townsfolk would find the gaudily-decorated coach rolling through their midst fascinating; it certainly would be a target for their curious eyes. Sheba seemed to know her thoughts.

“Stay back and no ‘un will see ye. I am sorry that we had to come into Truro, but Salem had ordered supplies from the general store the last time we passed through. We will go in to fetch them while ye and the boy stay inside the coach. Keep the shades drawn and ye will be safe enough. We will leave in a bit and camp well outside the town tonight.”

Demelza nodded, her thoughts in an uproar. _What if Jeremy and I be seen? If Ross finds us, he can take our child. Or maybe I have leapt to conclusions? Ross can be so tender, so kind—surely he would have pity on my mother’s heart! But he had no mercy for me last night, not when he went to Elizabeth despite my pleas. Once I asked Ross if he regretted his choice of me as his wife. He said then that he regretted nothing. I prayed it be true. Yet all it took for him to go running to Elizabeth was one note._

The coach slowed and came to a stop. The door opened and Salem retrieved the steps, positioning them beneath the door. He then reached in to help Granny Sheba.

Sheba ignored his proffered hand. “There has been a small change of plans, Grandson. Mistress Green and her son will be accompanying us past Truro.”

“Will they now?” Salem queried, his eyebrows raised.

“Aye. And she and the boy need to stay inside here. They mustn’t be seen. And put that small horse that she calls a dog into the coach, too.”

Salem puffed his lips, even as he obeyed his grandmother. “And they be coming with us because . . . ?”

“She and the boy need to go further away from here. And besides, I enjoy her company.”

Salem shook his head. “All right, Granny. I am sure ye have your reasons.”

With that, Sheba took her grandson’s hand and allowed him to escort her from the wagon. Once she descended, she turned back toward Demelza. “Remember, you and the boy stay in the coach. And keep the curtains closed.”

Salem looked to his daughter. “Now, Lydia. You know your task. The dogs need walking while we grown-ups fetch supplies.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Stay close. Do not wander away. Do not talk to strangers.”

“No, Papa.” Lydia smiled. “He always tells me that,” she whispered to Demelza.

“That’s because I love you. You’re a good lass. You are so much like your mama.” Salem ruffled his daughter’s blond hair before disappearing.

Lydia slipped leashes around the necks of the three little dogs. As Lydia slid out the door to lead the dogs away, Jeremy flung himself after her. “I go, too!”

“No, Jeremy,” spoke Demelza sharply as she caught his arm. “You have to stay here with me.”

Jeremy’s eyes welled. “I’m tired of sitting, Mama! I want to go with Lydie and the doggies! Please!”

“No, sweetheart,” his mother said softly as she caught him into her lap. “We have to stay in here a while longer. Let me tell you another story. Shhhh. Listen now.”

Jeremy was ordinarily a sweet-tempered child, but his early morning and the disruption to his schedule had caught up with him. “No! Go with Lydie!” And with that, he managed one of those boneless wiggles possible only to small children. Before Demelza could stop him, he had darted out of the wagon.

“Judas!” Demelza swore as she clambered after her son. “Stay, Garrick!”

Demelza stood outside the coach, desperately looking down both sides of the street. _Good Lord, there’s Pascoe’s bank right across the street! I have to find Jeremy and get back inside the coach before we be seen. Where . . . ? There!_ Jeremy was standing with Lydia some twenty feet away. Lydia had grasped the younger child’s hand and was obviously telling him that he could not run loose. In a few seconds, Demelza had caught up to the pair of them. She scooped her truant son into her arms and turned back toward the coach. Jeremy looked a little abashed at the to-do over him and hid his face in his mother’s neck.

“We go back **now** , my love,” Demelza scolded. “No more naughtiness.”

“Mistress Poldark?”

Demelza turned automatically at her name. _Judas!_ She drew up at the sight of an elderly woman squinting in her direction.

“Mistress Poldark? ‘Tis Alice Teague. My husband worked at Wheal Grace for many years. ’e’s gone now, and I come to live with my daughter here.” Demelza saw that the old woman’s eyes were silvered by cataracts. “I cannot see so well, as ye can probably tell, so I gather flowers to sell in the market. Would you like to buy some to take home to Nampara?” She extended a bouquet, but faltered at Demelza’s continued silence. She peered closer. “’Tis Mistress Poldark, ain’t it?”

“Nay, Granny,” Demelza sought to cast her voice lower than its usual pitch. “I be Polly Green, not Mistress . . . what were the name?” _God forgive me for lying to this poor woman._

“Poldark, ma’am. Sure but ye’ look like her. Ye have her hair . . .”

Lydia slipped up beside Demelza and put her hand in hers. “Mama, what pretty flowers. Can we have some? They be so cheerful.”

“Oh . . . I am so sorry,” Mistress Teague stammered. “’Tis my eyes, of course. The lady I know had but one child, a little boy. Well, she had a daughter, but . . . . anyway, there be but the boy now. I am that sorry to have inconvenienced ye . . . .”

Demelza was torn by gratitude to Lydia and guilt for deceiving the near-blind woman. “‘Twas but a harmless mistake. Let me buy a posy of flowers from ye, ma’am, for myself and the children.” She pressed a coin into the woman’s hand.

The elderly woman smiled in gratitude. “Thank ‘e, ma’am. And a blessin’ on you today.”

“Thank you, Granny.” _We could use a blessing, that’s sure,_ she thought silently.

Demelza quickly herded the children back toward the wagon as the flower seller tottered away. “Back inside, Jeremy. And no more being disobedient.”

Lydia forestalled Jeremy’s protests by producing a toy from under a seat. “Here, Jeremy. Look at this puzzle that my Papa made me.” Once he was busy, Lydia spoke hesitantly to Demelza.

“I know it was wrong to call you ‘mama’ in front of that lady. Mama said it is always wrong to lie. But I didn’t think of it as lying, because Jeremy told me that I could share you today . . . and I’ve missed my own mama so much . . . .” Her voice trailed off miserably.

Demelza’s heart went out to the child. “I know, Lydia. I won’t deny that it was helpful to me. But your mama was right about lying.” Demelza smiled wryly. “It do tend to cause more problems than naught. And it might sadden your papa if he heard you call me that. I imagine he misses her, too.” She slid an arm around Lydia and hugged her gently. “But you can still share me with Jeremy anytime you wish. Maybe it be best if you just call me ‘Polly. I be happy to be your friend.”

“All right, Miss Polly.” She gave Demelza a smile of exceptional sweetness, then whispered. “But I may still pretend to myself. I always wanted a brother or sister, too. ‘Tis lonely being the only one.” Lydia bent over Jeremy, showing him where to place the next puzzle piece.

The two children were soon engrossed in their task. _The poor lamb,_ Demelza thought. _With all my brothers, I never thought myself lonely for company. I craved some quiet, some rest from Father’s constant demands and punishments. But maybe I was lonely. Longing for someone to love me and appreciate me. I thought I had found that . . . and now I will miss it all the more._

Demelza leaned back, resting her head against the back of the coach. Outside, the cacophony of the town increased. _Thank goodness it was not so busy when Jeremy made his escape,_ she thought. _If he were to slip out now, we would be sighted for sure. He is so enraptured by that puzzle; he loves anything that has lots of parts and fits together. My clever, darling boy. He be so good with his hands already. He can just look at something and see how it works together._ Demelza relaxed in the warm coach, sliding into a half-sleep.

She suddenly jerked awake at the sound of a familiar baritone voice. She strained to hear above the noises of the busy street. Thank God, Jeremy had taken no notice.

“ . . . please. For the love of God . . . .”

Wagons rumbled past, drowning out most of Ross’s words. Another voice—Harris Pascoe?—answered. “ . . . will contact you immediately . . . . Do not let them slip away . . . .”

“. . . the love of my life . . . reunited with her. And I want my son . . .”

Tears stood in Demelza’s eyes. For a second, she fancied she could fell something in her chest physically cracking apart. _I didna’ think I could hurt more, but I do. There be no doubt now. Ross has chosen to be with the love of his life. And he wants Jeremy, too._   Panic beat at her thoughts.  _What will I do? Where will we go?  How can I keep Jeremy safe?_

A sudden memory rose in Demelza’s mind—Francis chalking a word on a board as he announced the closing of his family’s mine.  He had not behaved well during that period--far from it---but at that moment Francis had displayed a nobility of character Demelza had not seen in him previously.  _Resurgam._ Demelza took a deep breath and whispered aloud. “’Resurgam.’ I shall rise again. And Ross and Elizabeth will not take my son from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, and for the many kind words of encouragement.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and Elizabeth discuss the events of May 9th.

Ross leaned wearily against Nampara’s kitchen wall. God, he was tired. He had raced about Truro, inquiring after Demelza and Jeremy of anyone who might have seen them. Throwing his pride to the wind, he had stopped at the Red Lion and at the town’s inns, and had even wandered through the marketplace to ask of the vendors if they had seen the pair. The townspeople had looked at him askance, obviously wondering how Ross Poldark had misplaced his wife and child.

Then came the miserable journey back to Nampara. Ross had taken the time to purchase some food before leaving Truro, and then stopped at the village to arrange for workers to replace Jud and Prudie. Zacky’s visit had forewarned him of the feelings of the villagers, so he was not surprised when the most respectable denizens politely and firmly claimed to be too busy with their own work to take on extra jobs. Ross had finally succeeded in hiring Jowanet and Kenver Nance to come to tend to the house and the grounds daily. Jowanet was a squinty-eyed widow who reputedly had a weakness for drink; her son, Kenver, was a good-enough lad but was racked by frequent fits of coughing. Neither mother nor son could afford to turn down steady wages. Ross had a sinking feeling that his own standard of living would soon suffer.

Ross had hoped desperately that he would find Demelza and Jeremy back at Nampara upon his return. He had imagined how he would explain his actions to his wife and seek her forgiveness. He would plead that this incident had exorcised Elizabeth’s hold on him at last. Demelza would be angry, as would be her right, but he would beg abjectly for her forgiveness—her absence for even such a short time had proved how much he loved and needed her. _Had she not left me, would I have learned my lesson? God, I am such a fool. I can see that if she remained, I might have simply assumed that she understands her place in my life. I would have thought that the less said about the whole affair the better—that it would all blow over if I said nothing._

Instead, the house was eerily empty and silent. The flowers he had purchased from Granny Teague lay wilting on the kitchen table; no childish babble filled the house. No Garrick lay thumping his tail by the hearth; Jeremy’s toys lay motionless on the floor. All of Ross’s excuses, apologies, and pleas remained unsaid, unheard.

“Where are you, Demelza?” Ross murmured aloud. “Why did you run away? I know that you were hurt and angry, but you have never backed down from a fight in your life. What made you flee?”

A white envelope propped on the table caught Ross’s eye. _Maybe she left a note that I missed earlier . . ._ He tore open the missive.

No, the handwriting was not Demelza’s urgent scrawl. Instead, it was of beautifully-formed copperplate, a handwriting he had become increasingly familiar with over the last few months as letters from Trenwith arrived almost daily. Elizabeth. Ross perused the letter reluctantly.

          ** _My Dearest Ross,_**

**_I heard that the situation at Nampara has changed. I came to discuss this with you, as it makes the way clear. Unfortunately, I missed you,_ **

**_so I will return later this evening._ **

**_Forgive me for writing circuitously, but you understand the need for discretion._ **

**_E_ **

_Dammit! I do not want to see Elizabeth, not now, not ever! I wish I never . . . ._ Ross went to the library to consult the mantel clock. A little after 6:00. The days were lengthening; sunset would not be until after 8:00. Maybe he could escape to the mine--

“Ross?”

Ross turned reluctantly at the sound of the dulcet voice. Elizabeth stood in Nampara’s door, framed by the light. As she stepped into the house, Ross noticed dispassionately that she was as ethereally lovely as ever, her curls framing her aristocratic face. In the past, Ross would have caught his breath at her beauty, her glacial perfection. But now the sight of Elizabeth failed to move him, except to make him feel old and tired beyond his years. _I miss Demelza’s warmth. Her passion. Her love._

“May I help you, Elizabeth?” Elizabeth seemed a little taken aback at his impersonal tone.

“Ross . . . about last night.”

“Yes.” He moved jerkily around the room. “I was . . . angry . . . at your announcement of your upcoming nuptials. I should not have come to you.”

Elizabeth smiled, her face radiant again. “But you did, my love. And now all can be as it should have been, so many years ago.”

“When was that, Elizabeth? When we made childish promises to each other? Or when you dismissed them to marry my cousin?”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “We have been through that so many times. There were many . . . misunderstandings. And now Francis,” she piously cast her eyes downward, “has passed. Since last night . . . . I understand that the situation here at Nampara has changed.”

“Where did you hear that, Elizabeth?” Ross rasped.

She shrugged a slim shoulder. “People talk. When I hear useful information, those people are rewarded.”

Ross snorted in disbelief. So much for his long-held image of Elizabeth as an unblemished paragon of virtue. “You bribe the servants for gossip?”

“And to disseminate information, when convenient.” Elizabeth smiled serenely.

Ross gaped at her. “You mean, you made sure . . .”

“Oh, Ross, it was not as though they did not know already. We were hardly silent, nor discrete, last night. The servants could barely wait to tell their friends. I just encouraged them to do what they were already going to do.”

He stood in disbelieving silence.

“Don’t look at me like that, Ross. I would never have done that ordinarily. It is far more fitting that I wait for you to call upon me first. I would have done that, if the situation here at Nampara had not altered. But since Demelza has taken the initiative to take her child and leave, there is no sense in waiting.”

Ross almost gasped aloud at Elizabeth’s statement, finally finding one phrase upon which to focus. “ _Her_ child?”

Elizabeth continued animatedly. “Yes! I took the opportunity to call upon my lawyer today . . . don’t worry, I was very vague. I only asked a few general questions on behalf of my ‘young friend’ who has found herself in an unfortunate situation. I was careful to keep it all very theoretical. Anyway, the lawyer informed me that if a person marries but misrepresents his or her age to be of the age of consent, there are grounds for annulment! Given the paucity of records for the poor, how can you be sure that Demelza even knew her correct age? Or that she did not lie about it? A quiet annulment and we can be married legally in the Church!”

Ross continued to stare at Elizabeth as she continued. “Of course, that will not make her son illegitimate on its own. The law and the Church are clear that even willful misrepresentation by a parent should not be held against a child. But you know how free she has been in her behavior. Smiles, friendships with all classes of people. There’s that doctor in the village—Enys?—who had the unfortunate relationship with a miner’s wife. People can be . . . found . . . who would testify that Demelza has behaved inappropriately. I am sure that her child can be disowned by you easily.”

“And why would I want to do that, Elizabeth?” Ross’s voice resembled a tiger’s growl.

Elizabeth stole a quick look at him and realized her mistake. She retreated rapidly. “Oh, I am sure you would not want to do that to the child. I was just speaking of what I discovered. No, I would be ecstatic to raise little Jeremy as my own.” Her voice became syrupy. “I am so fond of your son. It breaks my heart to see him in his rough play clothes, making mud pies in the yard while his mother works like a drudge. He plays with that mongrel—I can image little Jeremy has fleas. You’re a man; you have no idea what this looks like to a gentlewoman. I can make sure that Jeremy will be raised as a true Poldark. Poor little thing; there is no reason his humble maternal roots cannot be overcome. After all, he is a Poldark, and his future step-mama is a Chynoweth. Why, he would have the same assets as Geoffrey Charles . . . . except for Demelza as his birth mother. And she will be forgotten by anyone who matters.”

Ross could not trust himself to speak.

Elizabeth filled the void uncertainly. “After all, Ross. He is your son. You have the law on your side.”

_Of course. This is why Demelza fled._ The realization struck him with the force of a fist. _She is frightened that I will take our son away from her._

Ross forced his voice to remain quiet. “Elizabeth. Right now, you remind me so much of your mother. I never noticed before.”

Elizabeth smiled uncertainly. “Why, Ross. I do not think I’ve ever heard you say anything kind about my mother.”

“I did not,” he said through clenched teeth, “mean it as a compliment.”

Elizabeth recoiled as though slapped. “Ross . . . .”

“I see so much that I never saw before. All these years, I have idolized you, thought of you as my perfect love. And now I see how selfish, how manipulative . . .”

“Do not speak to me this way!” Elizabeth raised her voice. “Do not put all this on me! How often have you and I played upon our desire for each other? We stole countless moments that only flamed our passion! Sitting at Trenwith’s dining table casting smoldering looks at each other while Francis and Demelza looked at each other in pity and dismay! In our minds, we have undressed each other and made love in front of our spouses a thousand times. We committed adultery in all but deed and made them watch. Tell me you did not play this game willingly!”

She lowered her voice, sought calm. “For years, Ross, we have been like partners caught in an endless gavotte. You bow, I curtsy. You advance, I retreat. We circle each other . . . and the other dancers watch us helplessly, unable to break in or to stop us. But we can end the dance now, and be with each other as we should have been from the beginning.”

Ross’s anger suddenly deflated. “You are right, Elizabeth. I have been . . . unbelievably stupid. Worse, a monster to my wife and cousin. I never realized it until now. I thought of you as an ideal love that was stolen from me while I was fighting a terrible war in America. I had a brief period of clarity, when Julia was born. I even begged you to not allow the love of my life to die when Demelza and Julia were so ill. Yet since that time, I have murdered my wife’s faith in me over and over again. And I do not even know why.”

“Ross? I do not understand . . . ? What do you mean?”

“Go away, Elizabeth,” Ross said wearily. “Go away.” _I said something like that to Demelza, not twenty-four hours ago. ‘Get out of my way.’ I would give anything if I could rewind the clock to relive that moment and act differently. No; rewind the clock to when Julia died and I buried my love for Demelza beneath my old obsession with Elizabeth._

 “Go back to Trenwith, Elizabeth. You have convicted me of my iniquities. Contact George. Tell him that you cannot wait to marry him, that you are unwilling to wait for the banns. The Church can act quickly in special circumstances, and George is the man to make that happen.”

Elizabeth stared at him with growing fury. “You are going to treat me . . . like a slut? Like a whore that you wanted to bed, only to cast away?”

“As you say, Elizabeth. My behavior has been deplorable. I can only say that my eyes have been opened—to many things. In any case, I cannot see you being happy here at Nampara.”

“What . . . ? We would live at Trenwith, of course. You cannot imagine I would . . . ?"

“No, Nampara is my heritage. Trenwith was a place I visited, but it was always Francis’s inheritance. I realize now that Nampara is where I belong. At Trenwith, I would be like a lion in a zoo. Or maybe a wolf in a sheep pen, which is much worse. I have already behaved like that, hurting the innocents around me.” _Demelza. Jeremy. Zacky. Maybe even Dwight, if Elizabeth’s rumor-mongers are already at work._

Ross smiled humorlessly. “In any case, can you honestly say you could be happy here at Nampara, cleaning fish, chopping wood, tending to the garden? Helping this miner take off his smelly boots after a long day in the mines?”

Elizabeth’s horrified face said everything. Ross burst out laughing. “Go home, Elizabeth. Send word to George quickly. Pay your servants **not** to take your information to him.”

Elizabeth did not quite slam the door behind her. Ross leaned his forehead against it. _Oh, Demelza! Once I told you that I will make the world a better place because of Julia, and that I was already a better man because of you. How have I forgotten that? Why did I replace you with an idol of my own making?  Prudie said I have bit been right in the head. I fear she is right._

Ross poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it quickly. He poured another, noticing with almost clinical detachment that his hand shook slightly. “Where are you tonight, my love?” Ross said aloud. “Are you and our son hungry? Are you lost? Are you safe?”

_Come back, my love,_ his heart cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's obvious that I'm not a member of Team Elizabeth. I find her self-absorbed manipulativeness to be really, really annoying. And it infuriated me that Ross dithered around for about a month after his visit to Elizabeth, making both Demelza and Elizabeth hang on his actions. Thus this AU story--
> 
> And sorry for the spacing on Elizabeth's letter. I had attempted a different font for that part. Epic fail. I trust you, gentle readers, will forgive me. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Thank you for your patience!

Demelza lay cuddled against Jeremy in the bedroll, listening to the soft patter of rain on the canvas above them. _I cannot believe it,_ she marveled to herself. _We are warm; we are fed; we are safe. We have found friends and hope. I even have a means of caring for Jeremy and myself._

She shut her eyes and pulled her son even tighter against her, spooning his tiny body against her stomach and thighs. _Oh, my boy, my boy,_ she crooned to herself. _I will keep you safe. You are my life._

Demelza thought back to those terrible moments in Truro when, hidden in the wagon, she overheard Ross confirm all her fears. Demelza had thought about springing from the coach to confront her husband and beg for her son, only to realize that all hope of keeping Jeremy would then be lost. Ross could simply summon the authorities, and Jeremy would be gone forever. Instead, Demelza had huddled in the wagon until Lydia’s family returned. The coach door opened and Salem began lifting in sacks of supplies.

“The store owner tried to overcharge me for the provisions, but I soon put a stop to that. I might be a travelling minstrel, I told him, but I can still count. . . Mistress Polly?” Salem stopped himself, his hazel eyes taking in her distressed countenance. “Be ye well? May I help?”

“Nay, Salem,” she whispered. “Just allow me to stay with ye and your family a little while longer. Please.”

“Of course, Mistress,” he agreed, as he assisted his grandmother and grandfather into the wagon. “My grandma has already said that ye will not be leavin’ us here.” The elderly couple quietly settled onto the seats. Sheba busied herself with a bit of knitting.

“Mama?” Jeremy, who had been preoccupied with Lydie’s puzzle, finally noticed Demelza’s leaking eyes. “Have owie? I kiss it.”

“Oh, my lover. Mama is just wearied. And I got something in my eyes. But a kiss would be welcome.” Jeremy happily responded with a resounding smack.

“Mistress Polly?” Lydia patted Demelza’s arm timidly. “Are ye angry with us . . . with me?”

“Nay, Lydie.” Demelza could not help but smile at the young girl’s concern. “Sweet girl; I be grizzling because I be tired. Do not think yourself at fault.” She pulled Jeremy into her lap and gently put an arm around Lydie. She leaned her head against the young girl’s forehead. “Ye have been a great help to me today. Thank ye for being like a sister to my little ‘un.” _Aye, but Lydia is only a couple of years older than Julia would be now. I wonder if things wouldna’ have been different, if she had lived. It was soon after her death that Ross began to pull away from me. Though he never said it, Ross never forgave . . . Nor I myself._

_Enough of that. It be too painful to think about._

The wagon began to roll forward as Demelza put her thoughts aside. _I canna keep looking backward,_ she told herself sternly. _That part of my life be over. I must look forward, to forge a future for myself and Jeremy._

“Where be we going?” she queried the wagon at large.

Old Davyd smiled benignly at her. “We be heading down toward Penzance way. There are lots of little towns and villages between here and there, and the weather be fair. ‘Tis a good time for people to have a little fun while at market, so entertainers from the outside world are welcome. Tonight, we will camp along a stream a few miles from Truro. ‘Twill be a good chance to practice our performances ‘fore we have an audience again.”

A sudden yawn caught Demelza by surprise. “I be sorry! I did not mean . . .”

“Aye, lass.” Old Davyd eyed her sympathetically. “I suspect you have had a long, hard day. Rest a while.”

Sheba clacked her knitting needles together and added, “Will be busy enough when we stop for the evening. The children are entertaining themselves for now. Take a catnap of your own.”

Demelza nodded gratefully and leaned her head against a cushion.

It seemed only a few moments later that Demelza felt the coach lurch to a halt. Her eyes flew open in alarm. For a few moments, she could not make sense of her surroundings; then reality snapped into place.

“Judas! How long was I asleep?” she blurted.

Sheba looked at her with amusement. “A couple of hours. I managed to knit two inches onto this scarf. We are now some distance from Truro; I think ye be safe.”

Salem appeared at the door, ready to escort his grandparents from the coach. “Here be a good place to stop.”

Demelza stepped out into a clearing not far from the road. A small creek babbled close by; the early May wildflowers waved in the breeze. She breathed deeply, letting the fresh air fill her lungs.

“It is so beautiful here,” she murmured.

“Aye, that it is,” answered Salem. “But night will fall soon enough, so we need to look smart about our tasks. Lydie?” He raised his voice slightly. “Ye need . . .”

“Yes, Papa. I’ll walk the dogs and start gathering wood for a fire. Come on, Jeremy—let’s get some sticks. Garrick! Come here, boy!” she called as she trotted away. Jeremy and Garrick barreled after her, both happy to be free of the coach.

“And I need to raise our shelter,” Salem continued, working as he spoke. “We use the coach as a base, extend poles from it, then drape canvases from them like a tent. I secure them with pegs to the ground, and roll out canvas underneath. We can then sleep snug as bugs.”

Demelza shook her head. “As I said earlier, ‘tis like a magic trick.”

“No magic,” Salem laughed. “Just necessity. When it be foul weather, we have to sleep inside the coach and quarters get tight. ‘Tis more pleasant when we can snooze outside the coach. After I get this set up, I’ll start our supper.”

“Nay, Salem,” Demelza protested. “Allow me to do that. Cooking I know, and it is the least I can do to thank ye and your family.”

Salem eyed her skeptically. “Cook over a campfire? ‘Tis not how a lady makes a meal.”

Demelza put her hands on her hips. “I’ll have ye know that I’ve cooked over many a bonfire on a beach, making everything from shellfish baked in embers to stargazy pie. I am quite well known for my stargazy pie.”

“Don’t be huffy, I simply asked. But Mistress Polly . . .” He shuffled uncertainly.

“Aye?” The big man looked at her beseechingly. “Please do not make me eat something that is looking back at me.”

Demelza laughed aloud. “Oooh, are ye squeamish about fish eyes?” She stifled the urge to poke him in the side.

“It’s not that I mind the fish, but their little eyeballs . . .”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “I promise. I will make sure that nothing stares at ye while ye eat it. No stargazy pie tonight.”

“Thank you, Miss Polly. Lydie will be bringing wood here shortly; Grandda has a tinderbox and will light ye a fire. Granny Sheba can show you our pots and food supplies . . . if ye are sure ye wish to do this,” he added doubtfully.

“Get on. ‘Tis the least I can do for all your kindness.”

Salem continued to look at her dubiously, but set about preparing the coach for the night.

Demelza soon lost herself in her meal preparations. True to Salem’s word, the children brought wood and Old Davyd used flint and iron to light a fire. Demelza asked Davyd if he had hook and line, much to the elderly man’s surprise. He obligingly provided both, and Demelza took herself and Garrick off to the stream and then the moor. The rest came naturally.

A couple of hours later, Salem sighed in deep contentment. “Mistress Polly, that was the finest meal we have eaten . . . well, ever.”

“Just wild brown trout cooked over the fire with greens from the moor, and potatoes ye bought in Truro baked in the coals. ‘Tis not much to rave about, Salem.”

Despite her disclaimer, everyone made appreciative noises. “Nay, lass. That was delicious,” averred Davyd. Sheba nodded her agreement as she helped herself to seconds.

“Thank you, Mistress Polly,” Lydia whispered. “Was the best meal . . .” She seemed at a loss for words.

“I understand, Lydie,” Demelza said softly. “I know you must miss your mama’s cooking.”

Lydia stared at her, eyes wide in shock.

Demelza thought, _Oh, no. I have put my foot in it by mentioning her mother. But Lydia speaks of her so often, I didna think they would mind . . . . when will I learn to control my mouth?_

She was even more startled when Lydia and her family burst into loud guffaws. Even Sheba, usually somewhat aloof, was cackling with merriment. Old Davyd finally found words.

“Oh, my! The lass—Tabby—could burn water! And did, often, until Salem banished her from cooking!”

Lydia hooted. “Do you remember when Momma tried to make a chicken? And she left the feathers on, thinking they would fall off when cooked?”

Salem shook his head. “Not only did that dish have scorched feathers, it was burnt on the outside and raw on the inside.”

“Momma gave it to the dogs . . . and was so mad when Jehu dug a hole and buried it!” Lydia buried her face in her skirt to muffle her laughter.

Salem shook his head ruefully. “You must think us unkind, Mistress Polly. Tabby was an extraordinary women . . . but a terrible cook. She had different talents.”

Lydia lifted her head as she quieted. “I miss her so much, Papa.” She went to stand next to her father, who put an arm around her.

“I know, lass. I do, too.”

Lydia brightened. “Do you remember, Papa? Momma could make all kinds of bird calls—she sounded just like a real bird. Sometimes, when we stopped to camp, she would make a bird call and a real one would answer back, and they would sing to each other for the longest time. The birds thought she was one of them. And she always sang to me when she put me to bed.” Lydia leaned against her father’s shoulder as he hugged her gently.

Sheba spoke up from across the campfire. “It’s good to talk about your momma, my dear. We all loved her. As long as we have our memories of Tabby, she will never really be gone."

“Well, we need to run through our performance,” Salem’s unsteady voice sought normality. “We should get to Redruth tomorrow, and we want to be ready. We gave Mistress Polly and Jeremy a brief show at lunch; let us go through the entire routine now.”

Salem set up his rings and called the three little dogs to him. Old Davyd plucked a spritely tune on his fiddle while Salem commenced his patter, putting the little dogs through their tricks. Lydia and Jeremy assumed roles as audience; Lydie through habit, Jeremy because of his excitement at the novelty of the act. Demelza began to clear the dinner dishes, trying to keep their clatter to a minimum.

“Mistress Polly?” Sheba quietly summoned Demelza.

Demelza found herself drawn to the old woman, yet was afraid of her perspicuity. “Yes, ma’am? Do ye need me? I be cleanin’ . . . ?”

“I know what ye are doin’, my girl. But I have a fancy to have a run at my cards. I know I said I only use these for people who need props. Well, villagers do like what appears mystical and magical; I will probably trot them out tomorrow. Here.” She patted a chair beside her.

Demelza sat beside the elderly woman, who was seated at one of the little folding tables. Sheba handed a pack of cards to Demelza. “I will use the Major Arcana. Their pictures are beautiful and mysterious. It makes people feel that they are getting their money’s worth. Shuffle them,” she directed. Sheba then counted out six cards and placed them back at the bottom of the deck. She turned the seventh card over and set it in the middle of the table.

“This be you,” Sheba pronounced as she tapped the card. “Fortitude.”

Demelza leaned over the table, fascinated despite herself. The card depicted a young woman with a lion at her feet. An emblem that looked like a figure eight on its side floated above her head. “Is she petting the beast or subduing it?” she asked Sheba.

Sheba shrugged. “Either. Both. The lion is your earthly nature. That symbol,” Sheba touched the twisted halo-like object, “represents infinity. The soul. She—you—are in control of both your spirit and body. You _endure._ ”

Demelza rolled the word around her mind. “Yes,” she said in surprise. “That does describe me. I have endured much.” _Resurgan_ , she thought. _I will rise again._

Sheba continued to count out the cards, putting each third card around the central one. She then leaned over and studied the result.

“The Magician. An alchemist. He’s a person with great potential, with dreams that can be richly fulfilled. He is a person of contradictions—he is both heroic and worldly. But,” she tsked, “he is reversed—he is upside down. That indicates delusions, time and effort misspent, chaos.”

“And here is the Empress, also reversed. Beauty, lushness, fertility, but twisted from its natural bent. This empress is passive; she is cold instead of warm. She reigns through manipulation, not strength.”

Demelza caught her breath. _Ross? Elizabeth?_

Sheba tapped another card. Demelza saw a frightening picture of a tower hit by lightening; people tumbled from it to the ground. “The Tower. Your world has been destroyed. But I do not need to tell you that.”

Sheba pointed to the next card. “The Moon reversed. Confusion; misinterpretation. Be careful that you see about you clearly. Are ye sure ye have not been hasty in your judgments?” She glared at Demelza as though she expected an answer, but swept on without waiting.

“The Wheel of Fortune. Change. Change ye have experienced, but change is still to come.”

Sheba sighed and paused over the next card. “The Lovers. But who . . . future or past?” She shook her head.

“The High Priestess. Listen to yourself. Trust your heart. Ultimately, your soul will triumph, but not without cost.”

Sheba stared at the cards, then swept her hands abruptly across the layout.

“’Tis nonsense,” she said almost angrily. “I do not know why I continue to perform this parlor trick for imbeciles.”

“Ma’am?” Demelza felt that she had been on the verge of uncovering some important truth. “What did the cards say?”

“Say? They say nothing. They indicate. They intuit . . . you create the meaning yourself.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Granny?” Lydia’s voice interrupted them. “Are you and Mistress Polly busy?”

Sheba scooped the cards into her hand. “Thank you for your patience with an old woman, Mistress Polly.” She raised her voice a little. “Come here, Lydie. Mistress Polly and I be done gabbing. What do you need, child?”

“I was just wondering if Mistress Polly needed some help with the dishes. We could take them to the stream . . .” Demelza stood and answered the child. “Aye, Lydie. I have the dishes and pot in this basket; you take this smaller basket with the rest of the dirty items.” She looked back at Sheba, a small frown tugging at her brows. “Are ye all right for us to leave you, ma’am? Ye seem discomfited.”

“I am fine, my dear. I am only old and tired. My bones ache, and it makes me cranky at times. Get on with both of ye.”

Sheba waited until Demelza and the children had walked to the stream, then laid the cards out again. Fortitude. Reversed Magician. Reversed Empress. And the Lovers?  Sheba shook her head.  _Leave it be.This young woman is getting too close to ye._ _I read the cards for Tabby once, and it broke my heart._

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of activity. The dishes were washed in the stream and repacked; bedrolls were laid out in the canvas shelter. Demelza insisted on overseeing sponge baths and the donning of nightclothes for the children, urging Salem and his grandparents to relax near the remains of the fire. Salem got to his feet when he saw that Lydia was ready for sleep.

“Ready for a story, lass?”

“Papa . . .” Lydia hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Do ye mind . . .” Lydia dithered a bit, then the words came in a rush. “Do ye mind if Mistress Polly puts Jeremy and me to bed tonight?”

Salem looked a little startled. “Why, lass. Mistress Polly may not . . .”

“Nay,” Demelza protested as she shepherded the children into the shelter. “I do not mind at all.”

Salem sat back down by the fire. Sheba leaned toward him and murmured, “Let Lydia enjoy a woman’s care tonight, Salem. She misses her momma.”

“I know, Granny. That is what worries me. What will she do when Mistress Polly be gone?”

Inside the shelter, Demelza knelt on the canvas flooring and efficiently helped the children slide into their respective bedrolls. “All right, now. Close your eyes. Say your prayers.” Jeremy obediently shut his eyes and murmured a garbled list of “thank you for” and “please take care ofs.” Garrick featured prominently in both lists, as did “mama and papa.” _How will I explain why Ross we not be with Ross?_ thought Demelza. _Jeremy has been so distracted by the novelty of today . . . but the questions will come soon enough._

“Amen,” pronounced Jeremy.

“Lydia?” prompted Demelza, smiling. The child’s grave eyes considered her, then winked shut. Lydia whispered, “Thank you for Granny and Grandda, for Papa, for the dogs, and the mules, and for Garrick, and for Mistress Polly and Jeremy. And please,” her voice choked a little, “take care of Mama. And, Dear God. . .” Her eyes flew open, seeking Demelza’s. “The next part is a secret between me and God. I do not want to say it aloud."

_What a funny little girl,_ Demelza thought. _Sure and her secret be about her momma._ “That be fine, my love. I think God can keep a confidence.”

Lydia smiled in relief and closed her eyes. After a minute, she opened them again. “Amen.”

Demelza bent over each child and pressed her lips to their brows. “And now to sleep.”

“A story, Mistress Polly? Please?”

“No,” protested Jeremy. “Mama sings now.”

Lydia smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand. “That sounds even better, Jeremy.”

“What about your favorite lullaby, Jeremy?” Demelza asked. “Yes!”

Demelza hummed a few measures to lull both children, then began to croon softly.

_“When the moon is on the sea . . . kosk yn ta, kosk yn ta”_

Her voice grew stronger.

_“Silver pilchards called to thee . . . kosk yn, kosk yn ta”_

Despite her resolution to only look forward, Demelza thought of the night of the pilchards. She and Ross milled on the beach with the villagers, scooping the fish into baskets—maybe a quarter of a million total. The people around Ross and Demelza laughed, smiled, even wept with relief. The miners and their families would eat. Afterward, she and Ross walked hand-in-hand back to Nampara, where the big bed awaited . . .

_“Dream of starry gazey pie kosk yn . . . kosk yn ta”_

Jeremy’s thumb was firmly in his mouth, his eyes fluttering as he slid into sleep. Lydia smiled at Demelza dreamily. “Mistress Polly? Ye sound like an angel.”

“Goodnight, dear Lydia. Sweet dreams.”

“Mistress Polly?” A deep male voice spoke behind her.

“Judas!” Demelza hissed as she started. “Salem! Ye frightened me!”

“You are hired as a member of the troupe. We will discuss the terms of your employment in the morn.  It seems you not be leavin' us soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. This chapter has been a little difficult to write--it's long (maybe too long), and it's a bridge from the world before May 9th to what comes later.  
> I admit to knowing almost nothing about Tarot cards, other than what one sees in movies or reads in novels--mostly Aunt Agatha! In my internet "crash course," I found on the PBS Poldark site that the UK Poldark Social Media team has designed beautifully-drawn Tarot cards featuring various characters in the roles of the Major Arcana. Here is the link for those who are interested. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/specialfeatures/poldark-s4-tarot-cards/  
> I used the characters associated with three of the major Poldark Tarot cards, but drew my imagery from older packs. For example, I prefer the idea of "Fortitude" for Demelza more than the modernized "Strength."  
> Other than that, my depiction of a reading is totally imaginary and is just for the purpose of the story.   
> As always, I appreciate feedback greatly. Thank you.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross realizes how badly he needs Demelza.

_No! No! Oh, God, no!_

Ross startled awake, wondering if he had shouted aloud. As his breath slowed, he realized that he was in his room at Nampara, not back in the makeshift battlefield headquarters in Virginia. “That damned dream,” he muttered to himself. “Again. I thought I was done with that. It’s been months.”

He lay back down, throwing his arm across his eyes. “And who cares if you did shout out loud, Poldark. There’s no one here to hear you, you fool.”

_No Demelza. No Jeremy. Not even Prudie and Jud. My God. I have not been so alone here since I returned from America ten years ago._

He thought back to those last bitter months in America. 1783. Sickened by the carnage and the waste, Ross had been haunted by the same hellish nightmare that visited him night after night. Was there any wonder that he had lost himself in dreams of love and purity? Elizabeth had come to represent the ideals that made life worth living. All the suffering during the war—it would be made right when he returned to her. And then to come home and find it was all a chimera. Ross still felt ill at the memory of his terrible homecoming. He had discovered his father had died and that no one had received his missives from America. Stopping at Trenwith, Ross found Francis and Elizabeth were engaged; it seemed that no one mourned his supposed demise.

At least the nightmare came more rarely once he returned to Nampara. Hard physical labor had made him drop exhausted into bed each night, too tired to waste energy on anything but sleep. Jud and Prudie had been comforting in an odd way, their drunken snores assuring him that he was not alone. Odd, how their almost porcine cacophony had acted like a lullaby.

And then Demelza came.

Demelza, with her quirky smile and sweetness. And feistiness. He thought of her quiet defiance, even as a new kitchen maid, in the face of what she considered his unreasonableness. Ross smiled at the memory, remembering Garrick’s desolate howls that first night upon being exiled outside because of possible “crawlers.” When the dog’s cries suddenly stopped, Ross had crept to the kitchen stealthily, wondering if his new maid had run away. Instead, he had espied her curled on the floor in front of the banked fire, spooned around her only friend.

Oh, Demelza was loyal. She had refused to take the job unless Garrick could come to Nampara; she quietly refused to evict the dog from the house, despite the possibility of being fired. The thought of someone so true—unlike his own family who had been so hasty to assume him dead—had been comforting to Ross. He had stood there, quietly watching them, before turning and going back to bed. It had been a long time before the nightmare dared intrude on his sleep again.

Ross sighed heavily, thinking of the horror that had invaded his sleep tonight. When Demelza had been here, warm beside him in their bed, the nightmare rarely came. When it did, Ross would nudge her awake. She would rouse, complaining that she got too little sleep as a married woman, but quickly warming to his caresses. Ross let her believe his need was merely the result of lust, rather than his raw need for solace.

Not that lust had been a problem, he conceded.

_I once told Demelza that her generosity shamed me. She always saw the good in things—even Julia’s death. But that terrible beauty in her unmanned me. She almost died along with Julia. I could not face that pain again, so I began to push Demelza away, bit by bit. It was easier to idealize what I thought unobtainable. I began to daydream about Elizabeth again, like a schoolboy lost in fantasies. But the reality of May 9th . . . it was like being with Margaret Vosper. The act might have been pleasant enough when I was a randy boy, but it was nothing like what I had with Demelza. I pray I can win her back . . . if I can find her . . . but if Demelza realizes the other blame I bear, she may never forgive me._

Ross knew there would be no more sleep tonight. He arose and walked to the washstand where he poured some tepid water from a pitcher into an ewer. He splashed the water over his face and then grabbed a towel.

“I might as well go to the mine,” he said aloud. I cannot stay here, alone. _I’ll go mad—if I am not mad already. Where can Demelza and Jeremy be? If she thinks that I will take Jeremy and leave her for Elizabeth, there is no telling where she has gone . . . or what she will do. She would fight like a tiger for him._

_I remember . . ._

It had been only a few months ago. Ross had surprised Demelza with a Christmas gift of stockings fine as cobwebs, slowly drawing one up a long leg and tying the garter around her slender thigh. Their caresses had escalated quickly from there. Afterward, they lay in the big bed, her fiery head resting on his chest.

“Thank you,” she had whispered.

“For the stockings?” he had questioned with a small grin.

“Well . . . yes. But even more for how prettily you presented them to me.” Demelza answered his smile with one of her own.

“That reminds me,” he yawned. “I brought some presents for Jeremy, as well. Do not let me forget to give them to him in the morning.”

“Oh, Ross!” Demelza’s face lit up like a flame as she pushed herself up on one elbow. “He will be that happy! What did you get him?”

“What little boys should get. A hobby horse—we need to be thinking about starting him on a real pony soon. Some candy.  And some mittens and a scarf.”

Demelza’s eyes welled.

Ross was bewildered. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, no! It’s just that . . . with our demands of the mine, and the needs of your folk at Trenwith . . . it just makes me so glad that you remembered him!”

“Demelza, he _is_ my son.”

A small silence separated them. Demelza’s smile faded as she lay back down on the bed.

“Demelza.”

“Yes, Ross?”

“What are you not saying?”

Demelza’s lashes made fan-like shadows on her cheeks. “Just that . . . I know you really did not feel ready for another baby. After Julia. And sometimes it seems that those at Trenwith are so close to you . . . .”

“My dearest wife.” Ross pushed himself up on his elbow to face her. “Jeremy is my son! I admit, I was afraid to open my heart . . . but when you are so brave, how can I be less?” He flopped back down on the bed. “You see, it is easy to be fond of Geoffrey Charles because he is not my son. I would be sad if anything were to happen to him. But it would not be the same—as losing . . . .” His voice trailed off.

Ross paused, then added, “And I feel sorry for Geoffrey Charles. He is fatherless—and Francis drowned in our mine.”

“Yes, you are right, Ross,” Demelza whispered.

Seeking to brighten the mood, Ross smiled and tweaked one of Demelza’s unruly curls. “You weep at the thought of me bringing Christmas gifts to our son! Are you sure you are not envious that I did not bring you another present instead?”

Demelza replied indignantly, “As if! No, Jeremy is my heart, my life. You know that. I am just that pleased.”

“Hmmmm,” Ross replied lightly. “Should I be jealous? Maybe you love him more than you love me?”

Demelza smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps.”

Ross pushed himself back up on his elbow, piqued despite himself. “And what do you mean by that?”

“I just be saying that the love for a mother for her child is different from that of her love for a man. A man can take care of himself.”

“So . . . let’s say . . . ,” Ross teased the idea, “that you, Jeremy, and I are out in our boat . . . .”

“And why would all three of us be in the boat?” Demelza scoffed.

“I don’t know. Just pretend.”

“Why? I can understand why you and I be in the boat, or even why I would take Jeremy out to amuse him. But why all three of us in that little boat?”

“All right. We are in the boat because the pilchards have come. We are out to watch them.”

“Should we not be on the beach helping the villagers harvest the fish?”

“That’s not the point! We are all in the boat together, and Jeremy and I both fall overboard.”

Demelza frowned at him. “I can see that a small child might fall in the sea, but why would ye? That would be silly.”

“This is not reality, Demelza. Just say that Jeremy and I both fall overboard. Which one of us would you rescue first?”

Demelza did not pause. “Jeremy, of course.”

Ross propped himself back up on his elbow and stared at her. “Shouldn’t you rescue me? I could help row the boat to him. . . “

She gazed back at him, her turquoise eyes fathomless. “Ross. Ye swim like a fish. Ye could save yourself. And if ye are fool enough to fall out of a perfectly good boat, why should I be fool enough to rescue ye?”

“Oh, would you then go off to Penzance and become a fine lady?”

Demelza stretched luxuriously. “I might. Perhaps I would find myself a fine gentleman there who would appreciate me. Maybe **that** be why ye fell out of the boat—I pushed ye.” And with that, she suddenly shoved him. Caught off balance, Ross toppled over, catching her in his arms at the last second. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of bedclothes.

The conversation had died as passion again took its course.

_Oh, my love, how did it go so wrong in less than five months? I cannot believe my actions, my stupidity. But at least Elizabeth’s visit today made me understand why you fled. You would do anything to protect our son. I would never take him from you—I know what it is to lose a mother. But after how I’ve behaved, why would you believe otherwise?_

_Where are you? You are not with the villagers; you would not have gone to your father. You are not with Dwight; he is away, seeing to patients in other villages. Caroline is in London, and you did not take enough money to get there—assuming you even knew where to go._

_In the morning, I will make arrangements to leave Nampara with the Nances for a few days and go to Verity in Falmouth. Maybe she knows something. I do not know where else you can be. Dearest God—please let Demelza and Jeremy be safe. That is all I ask._


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza and Jeremy continue their travels.

“Mama?”

“Yes, my lover?”

“I’m ready to go home now. I miss Prudie and Papa. ‘Specially Papa.”

Demelza shut her eyes tightly. _Not already_ , she thought. _I hoped to have a little more time before Jeremy began to question why we are not at Nampara. Why we are not with Ross._

She knelt down so he could look into her face. “My love, sometimes it is necessary for family to be away from each other for a while.”

Jeremy’s lip began to quiver. “Why? Is Papa mad at me? Doesn’t he love me anymore?”

“No! Oh no, my dear. Both your papa and I love you very much. No one is angry with you.” Demelza struggled to find words. _How do you explain to a small child that his father loves someone other than his mama? Sometimes I am so filled with rage and sadness, but I will not fill Jeremy with that poison. Let him cherish his memories of Ross and of Nampara._

Demelza held Jeremy’s hands as she spoke haltingly. “Papa . . . needs to take care of his family at Trenwith for a while. You remember your cousin Geoffrey Charles. He and his mother . . . and Papa’s Aunt Agatha . . . need help. So we are having a bit of a holiday while Papa does that. Isn’t it wonderful that you have a new friend? And new things to see and do?” Demelza smiled brightly at Lydie hovering close by, though her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Lydia sensed Demelza’s distress and took Jeremy by the hand. “Here, Jeremy. Let’s walk down to the stream. Look how pretty it is with the sun shining on it! I see some birds down there. Maybe we can see fish, or catch frogs!” Distracted, Jeremy allowed himself to be led away, although he looked back worriedly at his mother.

“He is young enough to be easily diverted,” rumbled Salem behind her.

“Aye, but it willna last long, I fear,” sighed Demelza. “He be missing his home.”

“And his father.” Salem looked at her steadily. “Look, ‘tis none of my business . . .”

“No! It’s not!” flared Demelza. A short silence fell before she sighed again. “I am sorry. It is your business. You have generously allowed me to travel with your family, and have even offered me employment. Ye are entitled to some answers.”

“Ye told us that your husband was in love with someone else, and that ye fear losing your child.” The big man shuffled uncomfortably before continuing. “But it is a sad thing for family to be parted, especially when a child is involved. I see how my daughter mourns her momma every day. Are ye sure that the boy’s father will not see reason?”

Demelza gave a half shrug. “See reason? I suspect he thinks that he has seen reason. Most of our neighbors would agree. I was only a scullery wench who married her employer.” She followed Jeremy and Lydie toward the sun-dappled creek. “Lydie is right—the stream is beautiful. I knew there was a reason I did not put stockings and shoes on yet. I hope ye will not be poleaxed if I wade in the water.”

Salem refused to change the subject. “I have not known ye long, but I doubt that you were ever ‘only’ anything, much less a wench. Ye seem like an exceptional woman to me.”

“’Tis kind of ye to say so. But your grandmother was right when she read my palm—my husband does come from an old and notable family, and was born to wed better than I. Eliz—the lady he was promised to—married someone else, but now is free. She is beautiful and gracious, and well-bred. Everything I am not. Ro—my husband once told me that she was born to be admired. I told him that I was born to pull turnips.” Demelza smiled wryly.

Salem stopped and looked into Demelza’s sea-colored eyes. “If he believes that, then he is a fool.”

Demelza blushed under Salem’s intense scrutiny before replying flippantly. “I told him so many a time. Seemed to make no difference.”

“Look, mama! A flower!” Jeremy ran back toward his mother, brandishing his find. “It’s purple!”

“Oh, my lover!” Demelza said as she took the bloom from Jeremy. “’Tis a violet! Thank you!”

“I love you, mama.” Jeremy threw his arms around her leg and hugged her tightly before darting away. “Lydie! Wait for me! Come on, Garrick!”

Demelza smiled as she closed her eyes and held the bloom to her face. “Oh, my little one.”

She opened her eyes, only to find Salem’s boring into hers. “Your husband. Does this man love his son?”

Demelza thought seriously before answering. “Aye. Ross does love our boy. At least now. He was not pleased when he found that I was carrying Jeremy . . . . We had just lost another child from the putrid throat. A daughter.”

Salem looked stricken. “If this be too painful . . .”

Demelza resumed walking toward the children, now splashing happily in the shallow stream. Garrick stood on the shore, barking whenever he thought they waded too far from shore. “Nay, Garrick,” she scolded. “They be fine. See, I’m stepping in the brook, too.” She looked back at Salem, “It is painful, but I need to talk to someone, to get my thoughts in the open. My head is still spinning from all that is happened, and my heart is too sick to know what to do.”

Demelza’s teal-blue eyes stared into the past as she spoke haltingly. “I have always loved my husband, since I was little more than a child myself. Ross seemed a hero, a savior. I never dreamed he would marry such as I. I didna’ expect him to love me, and he didna’ at first. But he was fond of me, and I was happy with that.” She did not notice how Salem winced at her words.

“’Tis an ugly picture ye paint of your husband.”

“Oh, no!” Demelza protested. “I went into this with my eyes open! I knew that he still worshiped his first love. But then, at our first Christmas,” Demelza faltered, “it seemed that his heart had turned to me. He said such sweet words, and told me that he had come to love me. And I told him we were to have a child.” She bent to the stream, trailing her fingers in the water. “Our golden Julia.”

Demelza fell silent as memories swept over her.

_Why do you think I married you?_   Ross had queried.

_I don't rightly know._

_To satisfy an appetite. To save myself from being alone. Because it was the right thing to do. I had few expectations. At best, you'd be a distraction, a bandage to ease a wound. But I was mistaken. You've redeemed me. I am your humble servant, and I love you._

She sighed, then shook the water from her fingers. “For a while, we seemed happy. But then . . . I betrayed his trust.”

Salem started in shock. Demelza laughed ruefully. “No, not like that. I only wanted everyone to share my joy. I tried to help a friend—Ross’s cousin—be with her true love. The repercussions were terrible, and my husband was angry that I had kept secrets from him. He began to draw away from me then.” Demelza still flinched as she remembered Ross’s angry words, his sarcasm biting as he berated her for her role in Verity’s elopement.

Demelza found her eyes watering and paused to wipe her eyes. “I am sorry! I be a badly mended stovepot leaking all over the place! I have not wept this much in all my life. Let me get to the end of this sorry tale.” She waded a few feet downstream, enjoying the cool water on her bare feet. She continued. “Ross warned me away from his folk, but I wanted to mend the situation. I went to them to beg for forgiveness and found them ill with the putrid throat.” Demelza fell silent, listening to the water splashing against the stones in the riverbed.

“What did you do?” Salem quietly asked.

Demelza answered matter-of-factly. “I nursed them, of course. What else would I do? But the disease followed me back to our own house. I nearly died; our child breathed her last in my husband’s arms.” Demelza tilted her face up toward the sun, willing the pooled tears to remain in her eyes. She then turned toward Salem. “Julia was the sun, the moon, and the stars to Ross. He never said, but I know he blamed me for her death.”

Demelza quieted again, lost in her thoughts as she turned back toward the stream. _Thank you, Elizabeth,_ she thought bitterly. _My child for yours._

_**No.** That is unworthy of me. Of all of us. ‘Twas not the fault of those at Trenwith. And good did come of it. Thank God Ross and Francis reconciled before Francis’s death. It would have destroyed Ross had his cousin died while there was still a rift. For all Francis’s faults, Ross loved him as a brother. _

Demelza bent down, dangling her fingers in the cool water again. “Even now, I cannot see that I could have done otherwise.” She smiled sadly as the current tugged at her hand. “Times I wish I were a bird flying up above the trees, or darting down to a stream like this, free of all care. I know,” she laughed at the face Salem pulled. “‘Tis but a fancy. Would not be so pleasant when the seasons turn and the land grows hard. Well, to continue . . . My husband was good to me while I recovered, but began to distance himself soon after. I imagine there were times when he could barely look at me. And now—well, he has returned to his first love.”

Demelza stood and shrugged her shoulders fatalistically. “So . . . to answer your question. Yes, my husband loves our son. But he has never been free with that love, the way he was with our daughter. He is guarded, as if his heart is a fine crystal that could shatter if treated carelessly. And since Julia’s death, Ross treats me as someone for whom he . . . has affection. Not passion, except in the most basic manner.”

Salem blushed at her words. _He is more modest than I thought,_ Demelza thought, charmed despite the sadness of her tale. She continued doggedly, “But passion is no longer enough. I will no longer settle for crumbs from the rich man’s table.”

Her companion peered intently into Demelza’s face. _His eyes are the color of Ross’s rum,_ came the random thought. “So, what is it ye want?” Salem asked.

“I want what is best for my son. If I were to leave Jeremy with his father, he would have far more comfortable surroundings than I can provide. But . . . I fear that Jeremy would suffer in his treatment by his stepmother. Not that she would physically hurt him,” she hastened to be fair, “but Jeremy would not be treated as her own children. And Ross,” Demelza swallowed hard, then continued, “. . . might prefer the children he would have by her. I fear Jeremy might not be treated with the love that he deserves.”

“Garrick! Mama! Help!” A loud squawk from Jeremy interrupted their conversation. Garrick had determined that Jeremy had waded too far from shore for his liking; the dog had grabbed the back of Jeremy’s shirt in his teeth and yanked him back toward shore. Overbalanced, Jeremy had sat down hard in the stream, soaking himself and thoroughly splashing both Lydia and Garrick in the process.

Lydia helped Jeremy to his feet while hooting with laughter. “Papa! Miss Polly! Did you see what Garrick did! ‘Twas so funny!”

“Mama! Garrick was bad! He made me all wet!”

“Oh, my darling,” soothed Demelza. “Garrick was not bad. He wanted to make sure you were safe. He loves you and wants to keep you from harm. As do I,” she added, though more for Salem’s benefit than that of Jeremy.

“I understand thoroughly, Mistress Polly. A child’s welfare must come before all else.”

Demelza interrupted, “You should know, my name . . .”

“Is Polly Green. As I said before, we cannot betray what we do not know. And besides,” Salem’s face crinkled in a grin, “you cannot put my poor God-fearing grandfather in such a quandary. He is morally bound to tell the truth. Let that be his truth.”

“So now, Mistress Green, let us get these wet children back to our camp and dry them. I think they have already had their baths for the day. We need to talk about the terms of your employment, and how best we can utilize you in Davyd’s Troupe of Musical Acrobats, Mysteries, and Dramatic Performers. From what I heard last night, I plan for ye to be our songbird to entertain our audiences.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long--life has bee incredibly busy. I hope this is not too "talky," but I love exploring the inner lives of Winston Graham's immortal characters. As always, feedback is welcome. (Translation: "begged for.")


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross continues to seek Demelza and Jeremy.

Ross’s head snapped back with the force of Verity’s slap. His jaws clicked together, and he tasted blood as he bit his tongue. _Thank God it was not Demelza who backhanded me_ , he thought inanely. _With all that she does—kneading bread, chopping wood, rowing to sea—she could probably drop me to the ground._

“Ross Poldark!” Verity all but spat her words. “How could you be unfaithful to Demelza?”

Ross swallowed hard before he answered. “God help me, Verity. I do not know.”

The fire deserted Verity as she sagged into a side chair. “Oh, Ross. I cannot believe you would be so cruel. As a boy, you could be wild and reckless, but you never wanted to hurt others. I expected such behavior from Francis—although he was my brother and I loved him, I knew he was morally weak. He even had an affair with _that creature_ while married to Elizabeth . . . .”

“Do not disparage Margaret Volsper, Verity. She is just a businesswoman who plies a trade with the gifts given to her by nature. I have done much worse in betraying my vows to my wife.”

Verity suddenly put her head down to her knees.

“Verity . . . ?”

“It’s nothing, Ross.” Verity sat upright. “The room began to spin . . . I felt weak.”

Ross sprang toward the door. “I will go for a doctor . . . .”

“Don’t be an idiot, Ross,” snapped Verity. “I’m going to have a baby in a few months. I am not dying.”

Ross halted in his flight toward the door. “Verity . . . A baby?”

“Yes, my dear cousin,” said Verity softly. “I am going to have a baby in the autumn.” Her face flushed with joy as she unconsciously cupped her stomach with her hand. “I am very well, and very happy. But sometimes I become am a little emotional and somewhat nauseated. All of which your own wife handled under far worse conditions than mine.”

Ross was bewildered. “What . . . when . . . ?”

Verity glared at her cousin. “Ross. Your trial for inciting riot. Surely you realized that Demelza was with child at the time?”

It was Ross’s turn to sag into a chair. “She never said a word during the trial. Only some time afterward.”

“Can you not _**count?**_ ”

Ross thought backwards from Jeremy’s birth date. “I never realized . . .”

“No, you would not. During the trial, while you stood nobly for the rights of man and the state, Demelza hid her own concerns from you. She swore me to secrecy about her condition, because she did not want you to worry more than you already did. She confided that she was terrified she and the baby would be transported to Canada or Australia because of the debts she would inherit if you were found guilty.”

Ross started to his feet. “Verity!”

“She saw fit not inflict those fears upon you once you were acquitted. ‘Ross is still fretting so about the debts and the mine,’ she told me before I left for home. ‘He dreads the cost of another child, so I cannot even tell him about the new baby—much less my silly phantasms during the trial.”

“No, I never knew.” Ross fell silent as he paced in front of the fireplace. “She did not tell me she was with child for some time afterwards, and then only after I put my foot in it. But why would she be concerned about transportation? Surely the courts . . . ”

“Might set an example? That is all we heard during your trial. That ‘someone’ had to be held accountable, if the revolution of France was not to come to Britain’s shores. You seemed happy to be that person.” Verity smiled ruefully. “You seemed like the Cornish version of the Marquis de Lafayette, an aristocrat who would fight for the lower classes.”

She continued inexorably. “It seemed every day brought news of the world turned upside down. The execution of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Slave rebellions and revolution in Saint-Domingue. Localized uprisings on the continent. There were many here in Cornwall who believed that examples needed to be made to deter similar violence. You remember the hangings of those poor wretches who had done little more than express their discontent.” Verity hesitated, “Has Demelza never said anything about the enmity she still experiences?”

“She grumbles that she does not want to go to public functions because snobs like Ruth Teague turn up their noses at her. I thought she was just oversensitive. After all, people like Caroline and her uncle adore her.”

“Much to their credit. But there are many hurtful comments from others. As she walks through a room, there is an underlying mutter of “trull,” “slut,” even “whore.” Ross’s dark eyes flashed angrily as he balled his fists.

Verity raised her hand to stop his tirade before it began. “Oh, never in your hearing, unless it is George Warleggan or his cronies angling for a fight—then you are the target, not Demelza. But other people make sure she hears, even if you do not.”

Ross scowled at Verity. “Allow me to guess. Neither you nor Demelza have seen fit to tell me of this because you are afraid I will defend my wife’s honor.”

“Start a fight, you mean. I am so glad you can deduce this yourself. Shall I continue?”

Ross nodded jerkily.

“Those are the comments that Demelza hears _now_. Back during your trial, the cry to protect society through public examples was far uglier—especially when that clarion call was fueled by Warleggan money. If the courts were willing to prosecute you, a member of one of Cornwall’s finest families, how much mercy would they show a Carne who had flouted the social order?”

Ross sighed miserably. “You are right, Verity. As always, I have been so fixated on my own concerns that I failed to perceive those of others near me.” _Like Zacky and the villagers, worrying if I will abandon them to their plight. Like Demelza herself_. “I came here today to find out if Demelza has contacted you. As I said before you so clearly expressed your opinion of me,” Ross rubbed the side of his face, “I have offended my wife greatly.”

Verity glowered at her cousin. “And as I said, there is only one reason I can imagine for Demelza to leave you. Your face indicted you. You deserve far more than a slap.”

“Please, Verity. I am in agony. I believe that Demelza fears that I will dissolve our marriage and take our son from her.”

Verity stared unblinkingly at Ross. “And will you?”

“How can you even ask such a question! I would never hurt Demel—“ He stopped, wishing the words unspoken.

“Indeed, Ross. How _can_ I ask such a question. I think you have answered yourself.”

“You have always been more like a sister to me than a cousin; you know me better than I know myself.” Ross knelt in front of Verity, grasping both of her hands in his. “I promise that I would never take Jeremy from Demelza. I am guilty of monumental idiocy, but I want to make things right. We can put this behind us; we can go back to the way it was. Demelza and I do not even need to speak of it again.”

Verity gently moved her hands so that she now cupped his. “Ross. When you were a little boy you found a baby hedgehog in its nest. You decided to bring it home and make it a pet. Your papa warned that wild animals do not take to captivity well. You promised to take good care of it and he allowed you to keep it.”

“I do not remember this, Verity.”

“It died, of course.”

Ross was confused. “What do my wife and child have to do with my ill-fated attempt to keep a hedgehog as a pet?”

“Only that good intentions are beside the point when the fundamental issue is untenable. You did not mean to hurt the little hedgehog, but you did so. Now, you say you were guilty of ‘monumental idiocy’ and want to sweep it under the rug. ‘If a thing is not seen, it does not exist!’ No, Ross. That is the thinking of a child claiming to have not stolen a cake, although the crumbs are all over his face! You did not have a momentary lapse of reason; you committed adultery. Hush, my dear!” She placed her fingertips over Ross’s lips to stifle his protests. “It is insulting to Demelza to think you can just ignore her pain. You cannot turn back the clock. You will have to admit your cruelty to her and work to earn back her love—if you can.”

Ross sank his head in Verity’s lap. After a moment, she began to stroke his dark curls back from his brow. Almost a minute passed before he spoke. “Oh, Verity. Why do you have to be so wise? When I came here seeking Demelza and Jeremy, I hoped for redemption, but you have held a looking-glass up to me—and what I see is monstrous.”

Verity continued her gentle caress. “I must ask, Ross. _Why?_ Why did you do this? Demelza loves you dearly. And she has been far more patient with you than you deserve.”

Ross turned his face to look up at his cousin pleadingly. “What can I say? It was something I cannot explain. You must see that I had no choice.”

He was shocked when Verity shoved his head from her lap. The spitfire who had slapped him earlier had returned. “Had no choice? _Had no choice!”_

“Verity . . .”

“Get out of my house, Ross! Get out now!”

Ross fumbled for his black tricorn and started for the door.

“Get back here! I’m not done with you!”

Ross looked at Verity uncertainly. “Am I staying or going?”

Verity took a deep breath. “You are staying . . . for now,” she said fiercely. “How can you even find the nerve to claim you had no choice?”

Ross hung his head, unable to look into Verity’s furious eyes. “You are right, cousin. Again, I tried to excuse the inexcusable. Thank you for correcting me before I said something so foolish to my wife . . . if I can find her.”

“Sit down, cousin. I will not slap you again. Yet.” Verity took a chair again, as did Ross. She stared at him intently, until he began to squirm.

“Verity . . .”

“I just want to understand, Ross. Why are you so fixated on Elizabeth?”

“I never said it was Elizabeth . . .”

“Do—not—even—begin,” Verity ground out. “Of course it was Elizabeth. Back to my question. Why are you obsessed with her? She is beautiful, I grant you.”

“Quite,” Ross agreed.

“She is gracious.”

“Exceedingly.”

“She is terribly boring.”

Ross stared at Verity in surprise.

“Come, cousin,” Verity chided. “What does Elizabeth talk about? Social doings. How bored she is at Trenwith. How boring other people are. The latest exploits of Geoffrey Charles. How shabby Trenwith has become. How she must make-over a gown and a hat so no one will guess they have been worn before. How servants cannot be relied upon and how she has no idea how to administer Trenwith.”

Ross’s face burned brightly. He had to admit that his attention often wandered when Elizabeth sighed about clothes, gatherings, and genteel poverty. He was always relieved to return home and have a productive conversation with his wife about Nampara or the mine. _If this is true, why was I always so grateful to be summoned to Trenwith?_ he wondered for the first time.

Verity continued. “When she has any encouragement whatsoever, she moans that marrying Francis was a disappointment and a mistake. That you were the love of her life.” Verity shrugged, “Not that she usually comes out and says that to me, given my relationship to Francis. Elizabeth hints and flutters. But,” she scrutinized Ross, “I suspect she has said as much to you openly.”

She nodded as Ross’s expression confirmed her hunch. “Yes, I thought as much. She did not want you when she had a bigger fish, but she certainly did not expect you to be happy elsewhere. She was always greedy.”

“That is not fair, Verity! Her parents . . .”

“What? Would have turned her out of the house if she defied them? Would have beaten her? No, I do not believe so. They doted on her. But our Elizabeth is one to take the path of least resistance. Not that you were much better,” she added pointedly.

Stung, Ross retorted, “What do you mean by that?”

“Only that in 1780, you were . . . what? Nineteen? Twenty? Drinking and brawling, gaming and probably smuggling. In trouble so badly that your father bought a commission for you.”

“The story of many a high-spirited young man, Verity. Nothing sinister.”

“But those actions do not correlate with your supposed grand passion for Elizabeth.”

Ross gaped at his cousin. “What do you mean? She and I had an understanding . . .”

“I know, my dear. But that understanding was _not_ deep enough to keep you from throwing yourself in with wastrels and people of low character. You did _not_ adore her enough to stop your illicit activities. Elizabeth was a sixteen-year-old girl with whom you flirted whenever you could outwit Mama Chenowyth—I suspect that was a great deal of the attraction. Ultimately, you were happy enough to acquire a nice uniform and go have adventures in America. Neither of you seemed heartbroken at the separation.”

Ross found himself searching for words. "I . . . Elizabeth . . . that is . . ."

"Yes?" Verity challenged.

Ross redirected the conversation. "Well, why would you call Elizabeth greedy? She has always been kind to you."

Verity snorted. "Kind. Well, she has never snubbed me. But Elizabeth is not the kind of woman who can exist without the adoration of men. Surely you have noticed that? It was not enough to have you and my brother enchanted, but she sought to cast her spell over every male." Verity bit her lip. "Ross,” she confided, “I will tell you a secret. When we were little more than children, I . . . well, for a short time . . . I had a passing fancy for George Warleggan."

“Verity!" Ross did not know whether to howl with rage or laughter.

"Oh, do not be concerned," Verity hastened. "I soon recognized that George is inherently unkind, and that he was more interested my name than my person. But for a little while, I saw him as similar to myself, a person marginalized by polite society."

"And what did Elizabeth have to do with this?"

"Only that George had no value to her until she noticed my interest in him. Suddenly she graced him with her smiles, touching his arm whenever he drew near and staring into his eyes with a look of utmost fascination. Elizabeth is able to make a man feel that he is the center of the universe. George promptly joined the ranks of willing slaves trailing in her wake. As I said, Elizabeth is greedy—and needy. She measures her value by the number of men who are lovesick for her."

Verity paused, then leaned forward to put her hand on top of Ross’s. "She did not love you enough to break her engagement with Francis. Yet whenever you seem to be happy with Demelza, I notice that Elizabeth manages a rendezvous with you in which she expresses remorse for her decision. And to remind you of what you lost in her."

Ross's mouth twisted harshly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to everyone but you."

Silence fell upon the room as Verity sat back in her chair. She finally spoke. "Elizabeth has played you like a fish, Ross."

Ross chuckled despite himself. "And what do you know about fishing, Verity?"

"Only what your wife has taught me."

"Ah.” Sobered, Ross closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “Demelza’s fishing fed us during our lean years. Yet another way in which I have failed my family."

A few moments passed before Verity spoke again. "As I said, you and Elizabeth seemed to part easily enough when you left for America. Why did your feelings for her become so intense? You were devastated to find her betrothed to Francis.”

Ross stood suddenly, resuming his pacing along the Persian rug in front of the fireplace. "The time in America was difficult, Verity. Too harsh for the ears of a lady."

Verity pinned him with her gaze. "Ross, I am no longer a sheltered virgin. I am a naval officer’s wife, and stepmother to another one. I have heard and seen much that I could not imagine ten years ago."

"Yes," Ross admitted. "I constantly underestimate you, Verity." He paused, considering what to say, what to conceal. "The war was . . . brutal . . . in many ways. I had to grow up quickly.”

Ross's mind went back to the day he had reported to his troop headquarters in Virginia. "God, I was so green!” he laughed as he shook his head ruefully. “There I was, a brand new officer, and was I not the military expert already!”I marched up to three men sitting at the fire enjoying their ration of rum. I began to berate them . . . look at their uniforms! Their pants were dirty—they had not beat flour into them properly! Their buttons and other metal accoutrements needed polishing! They were disgraces to themselves and to their country!”

“What an arrogant pup I was,” Ross mused quietly. “For some reason, I failed to instill terror in the men. They must have seen I was all bark and no bite, because God knows discipline in the British army is unmerciful. Some people even say that the reason we were called ‘Lobsterbacks’ was not because of our coats, but because of the floggings that the officers doled out to soldiers.” He espied Verity’s shocked face. “See, I have upset you.”

“No, Ross,” Verity said. “I mean, it is distressing . . . but I believe the discipline is even worse in the navy.”

“I do not doubt that,” Ross responded. “But in any case, the men—O’Malley, Thomas, and Quinn—I still remember their names—were charmed by my naiveté. They took it upon themselves to introduce me to warfare in America.”

He fell silent as he remembered his first lesson. _Upon the life of yer own dear mither,_ O’Malley had expounded, _never shine yer buttons or anythin’ else if ye kin help it. ‘Tis safer to have dirty britches and tarnished metals that do not make such bright targets. The damned Americans do not wait for us to fight ‘em upon a field o’ honor, sir. They hide behind trees and walls, waitin’ to catch sight of us Bloody British—e’en though I am an Irishman—and snipe us._

Quinn took up the lesson. _And their weapons, sir. Our own Brown Bess can only shoot so far—mebbe 50 to 75 yards. Ye have to be able to see the whites of summun’s eyes to be confident of hittin’ ‘im. But those rebels have rifles that kin shoot three times as far—if a Continental has one of those devil guns, he kin nail ye before ye are anywhere near enough to defend yerself._

_Even if they have regular muskets, them colonists sometimes load ‘em with buckshot instead of just balls,_ Thomas warned. _Yankee peas, we calls that. Sprays into a mass of soldiers to hit the many, not just one._

Ross addressed Verity again. “The men then told me—with great delight—about all the horrible ways one could die in this war. Rifle and musket shot. Bayonets. Cannons. Infected wounds . . .”

_Bloody screaming dysentery,_ Quinn had rasped. _Screaming for yer mither while ye shit yer guts out._

_‘Member Matthews?_ O’Malley nodded sagely. _Caught the Yellow Jack. Died bleedin’ from ‘is mouth and eyes._

_I 'ear the Spanish call it the Black Vomit.  There's a name that says everthing ye need to know._

_Whut I fears most,_ Thomas leaned toward Ross confidentially, _is snakes._

_Snakes?_ Ross had asked incredulously.

_Aye, sir. We have . . . whut? Four types o’ snakes in England. Only one is poisonous—the adder. It gets about—_ Thomas held his hands about two feet apart _—so big at most. Here in Virginia, ye has all kinds o’ snakes. Grass snakes. King snakes. Black snakes. Scarlet snakes. Ye cannot even list ‘em all._

_But there’s worse._ Thomas’s eyes had grown huge. _‘ere ye have copperheads. Rattlesnakes. Cottonmouths. They be full o’ poison! And some of those snakes grow as long as a man is tall—six feet and more!_

_Aye, Quinn had nodded. Poor Old Hammett. That’s whut took ‘im. We ‘ad to march through marshy land, and ‘e stepped into a deep wet spot. Came down on a cottonmouth— the Rebels sometimes call ‘em water moccasins._

_Yessir,_ Thomas shook his head. _Them are mean snakes. Will turn around and come after ye. Bit poor Hammet on the inside of his leg, just above his boot. The bite rotted and ‘is leg turned black. Doctor took it off, but ‘twas too late. ‘e turned black as sin and smelled like rotted meat fore ‘e died._

“Ross? Cousin?”

Ross came back to the present. “I apologize, Verity. I am just remembering . . . old times. Suffice it to say that there seemed to be dozens of ways to die in America, each more horrible than the last. In the three years I was there, I saw many deaths. And I lost many friends.”

_O’Malley, shot through the head by an American rifleman. Quinn got lockjaw and died contorted in agony. And Thomas—poor Thomas had slid drunkenly into his bedroll one night, only to find himself in the company of a rattlesnake seeking a warm spot to take a nap. Screaming, Thomas had fought his way out of the tangled blankets, but not before being bitten numerous times. Ross was not sure if he had died from venom or from terror._

_And there was worse. Much worse._

Ross shook off the horrible image that rose in his mind. “Suffice it to say that I discovered that I had been far more sheltered than I knew. I had come to America thinking myself quite the man of the world. But my drinking and brawling proved to be just the actions of a Cornish lad grown too big for his britches. The war . . .” He fell silent.

“Ross?” prodded his cousin.

“It was more than just one war,” Ross explained with difficulty. “There was the war in which colonists were willing to die to preserve their lifestyle. There was a bloody civil struggle of Englishmen against English men. There was a conflict of colonial Scots, Irish, German, and English settlers against each other, and against soldiers of the same heritages. It was a war in which the British, French, and Spanish sought global control. The contradictions abounded. The same people who fought for freedom hold slaves. In all of these struggles, ideology and greed manifested themselves equally.”

“And all of this was played out in a land that is so much more . . . ” he sought to find the words, “ . . . _extreme_ than in England. A great wilderness lies right outside the American settlements. Roads disappear thirty miles from the coast and a primeval forest takes over the land. Native tribes desperate to defend their homes live within that great interior. The violence between white settlers and native peoples along the frontier is . . . horrific.”

“You never told me all this, Ross.”

“I do not speak about the war much, Verity. It brings back unpleasant memories. And I see no reason to burden my loved ones with these images.”

_Days of unrelenting boredom punctuated by bouts of extreme terror. No, it had not been an enjoyable experience._

Ross cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I think that is why I clung so hard to my memories of Elizabeth.” He did not notice how his voice softened at her name. “Elizabeth. So beautiful. So gentle. So lady-like, like my mother. So far away from the horror and violence and death that was all about me. I would tell myself, ‘Once this is over, I will return to her. She will be waiting, and it will all be worthwhile.’ Elizabeth became my entire _raison d’etre._ ”

Verity eyed him askance as he dreamily continued. “I would lie on my pallet at night and banish the ugliness of the day with memories of her. My favorite image of her was from right before I left Cornwall. Do you remember, Verity? Even Mama Chenowyth did not have the heart to forbid Elizabeth from going on a picnic with me, provided that you came as a chaperone. We went up to Hendrawna Point. We put a cloth down on the grass, and dined from a basket with fruits, cheeses, and cold meats. Afterward, you took out a drawing pad and tactfully sat a little distance away, sketching the sea. Elizabeth had on a simple gown sprigged with flowers. I sat on the cloth and laughed with joy watching Elizabeth as she danced barefooted along the Point, her hair blowing in the wind . . .”

“Ross.”

He looked at Verity in surprise, having almost forgotten her in his reverie. “Yes?”

Verity coughed slightly. “I remember the picnic, Ross. But I do not remember Elizabeth being barefoot along the cliff. Or dancing where any passerby could see her. Mama Chenowyth would not approve.”

Ross shook his head. “No, you are wrong. My image of her is so clear . . .”

“Cousin, do you really think Elizabeth’s tender feet could handle the moor’s tough grass? Mine certainly cannot. And did Elizabeth ever behave with so little inhibition?”

Ross was suddenly angry. “You are fabricating this!” He almost shouted his words. “You vilify a memory that is most dear to me! A memory that sustained me during the worst period of my life!”

Verity considered him sadly before she spoke. “Ross, my love. Why would I do that to you?”

Ross tried to bolster his arguments and found he could not. He deflated. “You mean, this precious memory—was naught but a daydream?”

Verity simply nodded.

“She gave me her ring, Verity.”

“She did not give it to you—you took it from her finger, claiming it as a token. I will admit, she did not protest.”

Ross stared into the fireplace as if visualizing his memories there. “And so my ‘perfect love’ was only a mirage. A sandcastle I have foolishly sought to defend against the tide. Oh, God, Verity,” he stood and bowed his head against mantelpiece. “I am such a fool.”

“You were not a fool, my dear. Only a very young and confused soldier, far from home, desperate to find meaning in what seemed a meaningless world.” She stood and put her hand on his shoulder. “But you are a fool now if your throw away your marriage to Demelza over that delusion.”

Ross’s jaw tightened as he looked away from Verity. “Do you think I can win Demelza back?”

Verity shrugged helplessly. “She has loved you for so long, Ross. Such love does not dissipate easily. But you have hurt her deeply. You must find Demelza and convince her of your feelings—and that Elizabeth will never be in your life again.” She stared at him sternly. “I once said something to you along the lines that you wanted both Demelza and Elizabeth. You replied that perhaps you did. That response was insulting then. You must make a decision and make your choice clear to both of them.”

Ross nodded shamefacedly. “There is one last issue, Ross.” Verity hesitated. “It involves Julia.”

Ross stared at her blankly. “Julia?”

Verity squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, my dear. It has been so obvious to everyone. You were so loving to Demelza before she and the babe grew ill. But then . . . afterward. You need to forgive Demelza.”

“I do not understand,” Ross stammered.

“For . . . bringing the infection to Nampara.”

“Oh, Verity,” Ross said heavily. “Does Demelza believe I blamed her?”

“It was fairly obvious.” Verity grasped him by his forearms. “You must let go of that anger. You expect so much of her. Remember, she lost her baby, too. I think sometimes you forget that she is so much younger than you.”

“Only in years, dear cousin. She is far more mature than I will ever be.” Ross closed his eyes in despair. “Where can Demelza and Jeremy be? Are they hungry? Lost? Hurt?”

Verity hugged him tightly. “Go back home to Nampara, Ross. Make inquiries of Demelza’s friends and family. If she comes here, I will make sure she and Jeremy are safe. In the meantime, think on what we have discussed.”

“I am not a praying man, Verity. But I believe God would listen to you. Please—pray that I do not lose my dearest wife, or my son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my writing blends elements of the original novels and the mini-series. The novels are brilliant (of course), and the TV adaptation has been spectacular. But because there are discrepancies--and this is my retelling--I maintain the right to pick, choose, and recast. For example, I have always seen Elizabeth as the ice queen of the book--the perfect lady of that time. Maybe I have forgotten it from my last reading--but I cannot image her dancing barefoot on a cliff! But I liked Ross having her ring, so . . . there you go. Likewise, I wanted to bring out the world of the Atlantic Revolutions and the social tensions that ensued. On a technical level, there is debate about the efficacy of muskets, but I'm going with common wisdom. And yes, snakes in the American South really get that big. :)
> 
> I hope this chapter is not too long--as I've said, I'm new to fiction and I know my pacing is erratic. As always, I am desperate for feedback.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demelza and Jeremy begin to establish a life away from Nampara--and from Ross.

_“The joys of love_

_Are but a moment strong_

_The pain of love endures_

_A whole life long . . .”_

 

The troupe decided to stay at the campsite an additional day to decide how best to incorporate Demelza into their act. Over mugs of tea, they discussed their upcoming performance in Redruth.

“I’ll set up a small stage for a Punch and Judy show for the children. Lydie, ye will show Miss Polly and Jeremy how to be beaters.”

“Beaters!” stammered Demelza.

“Do not worry—ye shall not be hittin’ anything,” smiled Salem as the others chuckled. “Ye and the children will help herd people toward the show. ‘Ooo. Look at the clever puppets!” Salem affected a girlish falsetto. “’Let’s go see!’ Then,” his voice dropped to its normal baritone, “ye and the children will move through the crowd with money bags, accepting coins. After the puppet act, I’ll move to a backdrop we will have draped from the side of the wagon, and I’ll put the dogs through their tricks. Grandda,” Salem addressed Davyd, “make sure ye and Lydie are ready with your fiddle and her tin whistle.”

“Granny, we’ll have ye set up in your little tent from the beginning so ye can tell fortunes and sell yer elixirs. Finally,” Salem turned to Demelza. “Ye will sing for the crowd as we draw to a close. Start with old Cornish songs and amusing tunes; end with hymns and ballads so the crowd will be quiet and mellow-feeling as we end. We do not want them all wound up and wanting ribaldry as the day is closing. Now,” he stood as he briskly rubbed his hands, “let us break our fast.”

After the meal, Old Davyd approached Demelza with his fiddle. “Well, lass. ‘Tis a beautiful day the Lord has gifted us. A Cornish sun and stream, the ocean in the background . . . this is as Creation should be. Shall we find out what songs ye and I know? And exchange new tunes, one musician to another?”

Demelza smiled warmly at him. Even though she usually distrusted people like the parish minister and her father who constantly prattled of religion, it was impossible not to like the gentle old man who seemed to find love and beauty all about him.

“Aye, sir. That would be a pleasant task indeed. But please explain to me how things will go when we get to Redruth? Where we will set up?”

Old Davyd explained that they had a long-standing relationship with an inn-keeper there, as well as with publicans throughout Cornwall. “People come to see us; they are marvelously pleased to see something from outside their little world. Then they go into the tavern and ‘ave a drink or two, and mebbe somethin’ to eat. We prosper; the local businesses benefit. ‘Tis a good relationship for us both. But,” he nodded sagely, “we take care to move on by evening. We do not want to attract rowdy men who might behave in an unseemly manner.” He hemmed delicately. “You will be wanting to be inside the coach with Sheba and Lydie after we finish our show.”

“I understand. I’m a miner’s daughter, born and bred in Illugan. I know how miners conduct themselves when they’ve had too much to imbibe. My own father was one of those men who behaved badly while under the influence of hard drink.”

“Aye, lass. There are people who bury their troubles in ale and gin everywhere, especially when there be grief and poverty.” Old Davyd smiled sadly. “Ye might not think so, but I was one o’ those men once. When I came back from King George’s War. The terrible things I saw . . . Were your pa a soldier?”

“Nay. The only war he ever fought was with the world around him. But you, sir? Ye were a soldier in the colonies?

“And a hard drinker, once.”

“Ye do not seem the type to over-indulge in strong brews.”

“And then roar and posture like a wounded lion? I were always more of a sad, melancholy drunk. Could not get certain images out of me head. I never hit anyone nor broke furniture, but me moodiness hurt those who loved me. That was before I turned to the Light.” He smiled seraphically.

“Are ye Methody, sir? My father speaks of having become a new man, but I see little change, except he dresses better—and he hits others with his voice and actions, instead of his fists and belt.” Demelza was surprised to hear the depth of bitterness in her voice.

Davyd shook his head. “I do not align meself with any one church. I admire the Quaker belief that we all share a Divine Spirit, from the grandest monarch to the humblest slave—but the Friends deny themselves the splendor of music in their services! What kind of worship is that!” He shook his head in disbelief, then continued. “I dearly love the Methody hymns, especially those by the Wesley boys—I suppose ye’ve heard ‘em? We’ll prolly sing some when we perform. The music art both uplifting and spritely, and makes our audience kindly disposed.”

The old man paused, then ventured tentatively. “Ye seemed troubled by our conversation, Miss Polly. Did yer father really change, when he became Methody? Or is he the same person, just wearing a new mask?”

Demelza pondered before answering. “If anything, I think he is even harder than he was before. When I was a girl, he was quick to strike me and my brothers. But then it would be over and he’d ignore us . . . until the next time. But now . . . ‘tis like he is always angry, yet convinced of his righteousness. He no longer strikes with his belt, but he uses his rectitude as a weapon. He even publically accused my husband of debauching me afore we were married—an action which humiliated me and almost cost me my husband. The Bible says I must love my father,” she spoke painfully. “But what if I cannot?”

Davyd shook his head gently. “Oh, my dear girl. Love is not an act of will. Ye cannot force it where it is not; ye cannot shut it off on demand. ‘Tis like the tides of the ocean—it comes when and where it does. All ye can do is open your heart and let it carry ye where it will.”

He settled his fiddle under his chin. “Now, my Lady Polly,” he smiled. “Know ye ‘The May Carol’? There’s a song that will please a crowd on a summer afternoon. We could begin yer performance with that.”

 

 

_“His eyes kissed mine_

_I saw the love in them shine_

_A rainbow brightened my window_

_Such love divine.”_

 

Over the next hour or so, Old Davyd and Demelza gained a healthy respect for each other’s musical knowledge. The aged fiddler knew countless tunes, ranging from traditional Cornish and English songs to those of the Scots, Irish, and even Americans. Demelza found he could play any tune after hearing it once. For his part, Davyd found Demelza an encyclopaedia of songs she had heard in countless markets and fairs, as well as from friends and relatives. She had wheedled tunes from people as diverse as Dwight Enys and Captain McNeill to Jud and Prudie.

Demelza sang Old Davyd the tune of a poignant new piece, “Plaisir d’Amour.” “I was told that the title means ‘The Joys of Love,’” she explained. “I canna speak French, but I saw a book that translated it into English. The song makes my heart bleed, ‘tis so beautiful.” She turned away to hide the tears that suddenly welled at the memory.

_It had been this last Christmastide. Ross had already surprised Demelza with her stockings. The next morning, he presented her with a gift of two volumes tied with a ribbon._

_“Ross, ye didn’t!” Demelza had exclaimed. “’Tis too extravagant! Ye can take them back to Truro to get your money back.”_

_“I will not. It is the least I can do for my Dog Star.”_

_Demelza had giggled a little at that. “I still do not know if that really be a compliment.”_

_“It is. You have guided this poor miner through some trying times. The least I can do is bestow these tokens of my gratitude.”_

_Demelza sobered. ‘Gratitude’?—I wish he had said ‘love’ instead, she thought. Nay, ‘tis Christmastime. I will not dwell on that now. “So what are these two books?” she asked aloud._

_“This one is of poetry. The other is music. I was told that people take the poetry and set it to tunes as fit the meter. I suspect you know more of this than do I.”_

_“Oh, Ross. ‘Tis too much. But thank you.” She had run to the spinet, eager to demonstrate her appreciation. She began to pick out a beautiful French air she found in the music book, then turned to the book of poetry to find something of similar rhythm._

Demelza recovered herself to the present as Davyd played through the melody. “Aye, lass. ‘Tis a rare haunting tune. We should close your performance tomorrow with it. It’ll give people sumpin to remember us by. And do ye know ‘The Swan Swims Bonnie’? There’s another lovely ballad.” They quickly lost themselves in their shared love of music.

After the practice, Sheba approached Demelza. “Here, my dear,” she said as she handed Demelza a small bottle.

“What is this?”

Sheba sighed. “’Tis for your hair.”

Demelza was bewildered. “My hair?”

“We may still be a little close to wherever ye came from. ‘Twill darken its color so ye not be quite so recognizable.”

Demelza sputtered a little. “But I like my hair!”

Sheba looked at her sympathetically. “And I suspect others like it, as well. Do not worry,” she hastened. “’Tis only a mix of ground nutshells and herbs like sage—‘twill wash out. I be heating some water for ye. We’ll comb the mixture through and let it dry in the sun.”

Demelza allowed Sheba to lead her to the campfire where a large pot of warm water awaited. As Sheba ladled the water over her bent head, Demelza remembered her younger self dunking her head under the frigid water from Nampara's courtyard pump while Ross looked on sardonically.

“Crawlers,” she muttered.

Sheba jerked away. “What!”

Demelza’s mouth twisted slightly. “Just a childhood memory, ma’am. I don’t ‘ave them now.”

Afterward, Demelza sat anxiously as Sheba combed the potion through her hair. “Are ye sure it will not look ill, ma’am?”

Sheba merely looked insulted.

“I’m sorry. Did not mean . . .”

The elderly lady relented. “I know, child. One application will only darken your hair a bit—we will continue to reapply for some time. It might help protect your identity.”

Afterward, Demelza disconsolately wandered down to the stream to sit on a log and wait for her hair to dry.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She half turned to see Salem standing beside her.

“Please.” She shifted a little further down the trunk as Salem sat beside her.

Demelza suddenly felt abashed. Since her marriage, she often wore her hair down like a younger girl, glorying in the attention Ross gave her fiery curls. It seemed a betrayal to him, sitting by a man in a damp dress with her wet tresses hanging around her. She was acutely aware of Salem sneaking glances at her from the corner of his eye.

They sat uncomfortably for a few minutes before Salem disarmed her with a wide grin. “So, Granny Sheba got ye with a hair potion.”

“Aye,” Demelza nodded miserably. “She said my hair is too recognizable, and that it would be best to disguise it."

“That is true,” Salem admitted. “'Tis a unique color.  She also likes to dispense her ungents. Do not worry,” he added kindly. “I am sure it will still be beautiful. See?” He gently lifted a drying ringlet with a fingertip. “’Tis the color of mahogany now.”

Demelza inspected the drying curl. “It is! I can still see the red shining through, but ‘tis deeper.” She held a tress up against the sun, studying the banked fire within it. Demelza let out a sigh of relief. “I know ‘tis vanity, especially when I be trying to secrete myself and Jeremy from discovery. But I am that glad to see that it is . . .”

“Still beautiful,” finished Salem. “That it is.”

Demelza was acutely aware of Salem's hand near her face, still gently touching her ringlet. She stood quickly, removing it from his fingers. “I must be getting back to Jeremy. Who knows what he and Lydie be up to?”

Salem reached out toward her, but let his hand fall. “Aye, ma’am. We must each be lookin’ toward our children.”

 

_"And now he's gone,_

_Like a dream that melts with the dawn._

_His memory stays locked in my heartstrings_

_He was never mine."_

 

Demelza’s silvery voice rang out in the marketplace as the hushed audience listened. The last words hung in the air, sustained against the pure note of Davyd’s violin. There was a moment of silence, then the crowd began to clap and whistle.

“Beautiful, my belle,” whispered Davyd. “Ye had them in the palm of yer hand. Let us away now—‘tis best to leave people while they still be wanting. And to leave before the serious drinking starts.”

Despite the calls for “more,” the troupe began to pack the wagon as Salem bade the crowd goodbye. The crowd dispersed rapidly once Salem began to move around with a coin bag to request donations.

“Hmph. People are always quick to applaud, but slow to pay,” murmured Sheba to Demelza.

“Ah, Granny. We do all right,” remonstrated Old Davyd. “People give what they can.”

“The show went well today,” grinned Salem as he joined them. “We have quite a take. Miss Polly! Ye did wondrously. Thank you.”

Lydia slid her little hand into Demelza’s. “Aye, ma’am,” she said shyly. “Ye sang like an angel. And ye were so pretty. Yer darker hair makes your skin and eyes glow.”

“Thank you, Lydie,” smiled Demelza as she bent to give the child a kiss on her cheek. “Ye are that sweet to me.”

Salem turned brisk. “Into the wagon, ladies and children. Grandda, do you wish to join me on the outside seat? We need get on the road afore some of these people decide to ask for a refund, or demand additional performances. We can discuss today’s show later.”

The rest of the evening transpired much like that of the day they departed Truro. The wagon trundled out of town until Salem recognized a good place to camp beside a stream. As he set up the wagon, Lydie and Jeremy gathered firewood and the elderly couple set up chairs and the bedrolls. Demelza took herself to the stream and moor to acquire dinner. Soon enough, everyone crawled into their blankets for a much-earned rest.

_Demelza dreamed vividly that night. In her dream, she and Ross stood in front of Wheal Grace, as they did the day Ross and Francis had announced their partnership. But now it was dark, and the stars glittered like pieces of ice in the black sky. Demelza and Ross stood alone before the decrepit mine as the sea roared in the background._

_In the dream, Demelza spoke. “Your father named this mine after your mum.”_

_Ross smiled faintly. “She kept him straight, while she lived. She was his North Star; he set his course by her.”_

_“He loved her.”_

_Demelza could see Ross’s hawkish profile etched against the inky sky. “The North Star is not the brightest in the sky. That is the Dog Star . . . which is only fitting,” he turned to her with a small grin, “as I met my love in a dog fight.”_

_“Ah, Ross.” Her heart sang with joy as she grasped his hands. But then the dream turned darker, and the stars winked into blackness._

_“Demelza . . .” Ross’s voice echoed mournfully._

_She could barely see Ross—only his obsidian silhouette before her._

_“Ross . . . what is it? I be frightened. What’s ‘appenin?”_

_“The Dog Days are coming.”_

_Demelza was confused. “Aye, summer and its heat are almost here.”_

_“No, Demelza. They are called that because Sirius—the Dog Star—disappears from view at that time. Its absence brings loss and sadness. Please, Demelza—I spoke true when I said you were my Dog Star. I beg you, do not desert me.”_

_Suddenly, Demelza was alone in front of Wheal Grace. She could hear Ross calling as if from afar, “Demelza! Jeremy! Where are you?”_

_Old Davyd loomed beside Demelza, leaning toward her. “’Tis his Dog Days, child. Be ye sure this is what ye want?”_

_Sheba snorted. When had she appeared? “Ye ask what the girl wants?  ‘Tis what he wants, old man.  He set this in motion.”_

_“Demelza! Please! Come back!” Ross’s desperate voice was fading._

_Davyd and Sheba disappeared. Instead, Elizabeth now stood beside Demelza, smiling superciliously. “The Dog Star? I’m not sure if that is truly a compliment. Do not be distressed, my dear. Ross has the moon to guide him now. I am sure you want him to be happy.” She extended a pale, well-manicured hand. “Come, Jeremy.”_

_“Mama!"  Jeremy screamed.  "Don’t let her take me!”_

Demelza awoke with a start, her heart pounding. She remembered having dreamed, but of what she did not know. She only knew that she and Jeremy had to get further away from Nampara, and from discovery. A stanza from the song she sang the previous afternoon threaded through her head:

“The joys of love

Are but a moment strong

The pain of love endures

A whole life long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this has taken so long to post. I have been extremely busy with my (boring) life, and I have also been busy researching details for this chapter. I love historical fiction--but even in an AU story, I want the history to be right, or at least plausible.
> 
> "Plaisir d'Amour" is one of the most heartrending love ballads ever written. Most of us recognize it as the melody of Elvis's "Can't Help Falling in Love with You," but the original was composed in 1784. The tune was over a decade old at the time of this story. A French-English language version is available on Youtube; Ms. Baez performs it much as I imagine Demelza would sing it. 
> 
> https://josvg.home.xs4all.nl/cits/div/joysoflove.html#lyrics is a webpage dedicated to the evolution of the song and provides the lyrics as quoted in the story. The author also describes a version as appearing in an extremely old English book; the webpage speculates that there may be multiple versions that date back to the 18th century.
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome. (Read: begged for).


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross continues to come to terms with his actions.

Ross found himself sitting upright in the bed, his heart pounding in terror as his old nightmare withdrew to the dark corners of the room. This time, he was certain that he had shouted his wife’s name aloud. He lay back down, squeezing his eyes shut as he dragged in a ragged breath.

What a miserable day. Ross had hoped against hope to find Demelza and Jeremy back at Nampara upon his return from Falmouth. He had imagined their reunion— her anger, his abject apology, the first tentative steps toward reconciliation. He would take Verity’s advice and acknowledge his guilt—no excuse of “I had no choice.” Ross vowed that he would spend the rest of his life, if need be, atoning for his actions. But he had returned to find the house empty.

Where could they be? Ross’s imagination painted a horrifying picture of a hungry and frightened Jeremy calling for him as he and his mother wandered lost on the moor. “Demelza will never let Jeremy suffer,” he muttered as he tossed on his pillow. “She ran with him because she wants to protect him from the monster she believes me to be. But she knows so little of the world beyond this protected corner. . . ”

Ross pushed himself out of the bed. It was no use; sleep would not return tonight. Instead, images from his gruesome nightmare mingled with those of his current despair. The world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. At this point, Ross was almost glad that Julia was safely beyond the dangers he feared for her mother and brother.

Ross lurched over to a side table where he had left a decanter of whiskey. He poured a glass of the amber fluid, noticing a tremor in his hand. “Congratulations, Poldark,” he murmured. “You have achieved your heart’s desire, your ‘perfect love.’ It only cost you everything.” Ross tossed back the liquor in a single swallow.

His perfect love. What a joke. Ross thought back to when he and Demelza had gone to Trenwith to reconcile with Francis. He and Francis had drunk too hard and laughed too much, abandoning the rest of the harvest party in their shared joy of reunion. After Francis had fallen asleep, Elizabeth had come to clear away the glasses. More than a little tipsy, Ross had spoken to Elizabeth about their past.

_God, what a fool I made of myself. I complimented Elizabeth when she tried to put me off, telling her she could never have been able to play the role of a scullery maid. Why did I make that jab at Demelza? She has done nothing but love me with all her heart. Instead of extolling Demelza’s loyalty, I told the woman who had **jilted** me that she was perfection. And all the while, Demelza was hiding her pregnancy because she was afraid of my reaction. _

He suddenly froze. _I thought Demelza was upstairs at the time, but she had left the house during the while I was with Francis. I wondered at the hurt in her eyes when I came into the bedroom; she rolled away and did not want to speak to me. She must have heard that “scullery maid” comment. How many other times have I casually hurt her with sarcastic, unkind words—and she simply swallowed her pain?_

Rooting through the mess on the table, Ross found the letter that had been waiting for him upon his return earlier that day. He broke into a sardonic grin. Strange, how only a few days had changed everything. Less than a week ago, a summons from Elizabeth would have had him flying from Nampara to Trenwith to wait upon her. Indeed, it had been a missive from Elizabeth on May 9th that had ignited his unrequited love, lust, and rage like a powder keg. Now, her letter only elicited tired regret, mixed with relief.

 

_My Dearest Cousin (as I shall now address you),_

_I had hoped that our meeting at Nampara the other day would end differently. We have long flirted with our old emotions toward each other and only stopped short of the action itself. The events of May 9th led me to hope that our lives would be set aright at last. However, your words to me the next day revealed that your long-professed feelings were based on frustrated infatuation instead of love._

_You recommended that George and I marry as quickly as possible. I agree, and so will elope with him. I am of age and mistress of my own estate; I need not ask anyone’s permission. I will tell George that I cannot wait to be his beloved wife, and beg to go to Gretna Green where banns need not be read. We will arrive there in a few days and can marry immediately. If there be a child in the next nine months or so—well, then, God will have blessed our union._

_Your wife has long been used to our relationship. Demelza always acknowledged that she is not part of the world you and I share. She has long understood—even admitted—that fate intended that we be one. Because of that, I have never understood the hurt she has evidenced—our love preceded your marriage of convenience to her. Oddly enough, I think her flight with the child has made her all the more attractive to you. Will this letter make you yearn for me again? Will the news that I am going to flee with George bring you to me once more?  I doubt it--I think Demelza has taken the field through sheer audacity._

_But I digress. I am neither as resilient nor as subservient to your fickle will as Demelza has been. Although Demelza may have been content to be second-best all these years, I am not. With George, I am and always will be first in his heart. Go back to Demelza and her son, Ross. I will not trouble you again, and trust you will return that favor._

_Sincerely—_

_E_

 

“Good for you, Elizabeth. I hope happiness for you. And I hope I will never see or hear from you again, as well.”

Ross dropped the letter back on the table. He looked about the bedroom dispassionately, noticing the clothes filthy from travel dropped carelessly on the floor, the sticky glasses left on the night table. Ross tried to pour water from the pitcher into the ewer, only to find both empty. The Nances’s standards of housekeeping were not even up to those of Jud and Prudie, much less Demelza's. Frustrated, he poured himself another tumbler of whiskey and quickly downed it.

“To the mine, Poldark. At least you can be of some use there. Dwight should return today—maybe he has had word from Demelza. My God, I hope so.”

Ross rode at his usual breakneck pace to Wheal Grace, where he slung Darkie’s reins around a post. Upon dismounting, he stood quietly and leaned his forehead against the horse’s neck. Here was a creature who was not disappointed in him, or hurt by his actions. Darkie nuzzled his shoulder and nibbled at his hair while Ross affectionately patted him. For a little while, the simplicity of the relationship between man and horse soothed him.

For the first time, Ross wondered who had brushed down and stabled Darkie the night he had gone to Trenwith. Obviously, someone had done so. _I was so blind,_ he thought bitterly. _It never occurred to me to think about all the eyes that saw me go to Elizabeth, the people who whispered about our tryst even as it began. In that moment, I never thought about anyone else—only about what I wanted. Of course my horse was curried and stabled; of course the servants took care to be invisible. I am so accustomed to being a Poldark, with its attendant privileges. Despite my talk of the dignity of the working class, I have acted like my actions have no effect on them, and that they should not dare to watch or judge me. I even thought that of my wife._ With a final pat, Ross left Darkie.

He entered the office to leave his tricorn and coat, then headed for the mine entrance. As Ross approached the adit, he became aware of voices raised just inside. He paused, listening.

“I just want to know . . . what do it mean fer us?”

“Aye, people be sayin’ that Captain Poldark cast off his wife and boy, and be readyin’ to move to the manor.”

“He ain’t been here in days—"

"--'e be gone from Nampara.  I hear he fixin’ to sell the mine to the Warleggans.”

“Who could blame ‘im? If I could live in luxury and not ‘ave to see yer ugly fizzogg . . .”

“That’s well an’ good, but what about us and our families . . . ?”

He recognized Zacky’s voice overriding the babble. “Close your traps, men! It be none of our business!”

A slurred voice answered. “I just be sayin’ who cares if the Cap’n’s slut be gone with ‘er bastard? She were above herself anyway, and no better than she should be. I ‘eard she be a wanton gilly-flower whose glove been stretched by many a tuss.” The voice dropped and became lascivious, “Now that she’s not so high-and-might, I might . . .”  An angry yell interrupted the words as a scuffle ensued.

A black rage descended upon Ross as he stormed into the adit. He saw a group of miners pulling Paul Daniels from an unfamiliar man as Zacky shouted for calm.

Paul struggled to free himself.

“Ye shut yer filthy mouth or I’ll shut it for ye! Mistress Demelza be a fine woman!”

“Aye?” sneered the other man. “They say the Cap’n been givin’ the goose’s neck to the Trenwith widow. So much fer ‘im bein’ a man of the people . . . ”

“It’s a mistake! Or the Cap’n must have his reasons for behaving so! He stood by my brother . . . !” Paul redoubled his efforts.

“Paul.” The men froze as Ross’s icy voice cut through the air.

The unfamiliar miner looked abashed, then shook himself and assumed a belligerent stance. “Well, if it ain’t Mister Poldark ‘imself. We was just talkin’ ‘bout you.”

Ross walked to the man. “The countryside seems to be buzzing about me recently. I am not surprised; I deserve censure.”

He half-turned away, then spun suddenly and punched the man in the face. “But do not disrespect _my wife_ ,” he ground out between his teeth. As the man sagged to the ground, Ross turned to the other miners. “I am not leaving Nampara; I am not abandoning Wheal Grace or its people. And God help me, when I find my wife, I will beg for her forgiveness.” He stared the miners in the eyes. The tension in the air lessened a bit; some of the men nodded at him while a few tentatively clapped him on the shoulder.

“Aye, lad,” said Zacky. “’Tis good to know that ye are still with us. Now,” he said briskly as he steered the conversation toward normality. “Ye lads need to get rid of this . . . ,” he prodded the fallen man with his booted toe, “this sorry piece of trash. I apologize, sir,” Zacky turned to Ross. “That there be John Johnson, a new hire. ‘e came from Illugan and seemed to know how to work a mine, but ‘as been naught but trouble since he came. I reckon he be gone now. Let me update ye on what we be happenin’. . .”

“Do it while we work, Zacky,” said Ross as he grabbed a ladder and swung it into the shaft. In one fluid motion, he swung onto it and began to descend.

“But sir . . ! Stop!” Zacky Martin started toward him, hand outstretched.

“Later, Zacky. I’ve lost enough time. Let’s get to . . .”

Whatever Ross was going to say was lost as the ladder collapsed and he plummeted to the bottom of the shaft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is becoming very busy, and I wanted to get this posted while I have time. I apologize for its brevity, and hope that it will meet your standards. You guys are the BEST.
> 
> A few notes: I have enjoyed researching for this story--from Poldark books and episodes, Cornish geography and flora/fauna, the snakes of Virginia, to late 18th century music. But this chapter was just too much fun. I had sussed the nature of the "glove" comment by Monk Adderley by thinking what was so insulting about that in Freudian terms. Imagine my delight to confirm that it was a naughty Shakespearean/Stuart term for "lady parts!" (Gordon Williams, A Dictionary of Sexual Language and Imagery in Shakespearean and Stuart Literature). How can I get a job researching. . . ? Never mind. Wishful thinking. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this. As always, feedback is craved.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demelza has a close encounter with the past.

“May I speak to ye, ma’am? Here, let us walk a little ways apart from the others.” Salem led Demelza toward the trees away from the campsite.

Demelza looked at Salem in surprise as he took her hand and put a little bag in it. “What’s this?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yer share of the earnin’s, ma’am.” Salem laughed at the befuddlement on Demelza’s face as she opened the draw-string pouch. “We had good hauls in Redruth and Camborne, and did right well in Helston. Penzance be but a little down the road. It will be different there—we’re arriving for the annual fair and so will stay for a few days. We’ll have time to go to stores and other market stalls to purchase a few things for ourselves. Ye might want something for ye and yer son.”

Demelza held the coins back out to Salem. “I have done naught! Ye have taken us in, sheltered us . . .”

Salem’s hand closed around Demelza’s, closing her fingers around the money. “And ye have cooked for us, washed pans and clothes, sung grumpy children to sleep, and pulled yer weight over and again. Grandda be ecstatic to have someun’ to talk music to, and Granny Sheba is happy for another woman to keep her company. Not to mention enchanting our audiences!” His eyes smiled into hers. “Don’t worry; you’re not getting’ more than yer share. We each get a part of our earnings after we account for troupe necessaries. Granny Sheba and Grandda plan to buy their little luxuries when we get to Penzance. Even Lydie will get spending money for ribbons or candies. Ye have earned it—I wish we could afford more.”

Demelza studied the money in her hand. _I earned this_ , she marveled. _I have worked for my living before—but only for Ross, afore we married. So often I felt that Jeremy and I were millstones round his neck. This is the first money that I have earned independent of him._ Sudden elation filled her.

“Thank you,” she blurted. “Ye do not know how much this means to me. ‘Tis proof that . . . .” She fumbled for words.

“Proof that ye can care for your son on your own,” Salem finished.

“Aye. I weren’t much more than a child when I first went into service, to the man who later married me. I never worked for anyone but him. Then I were his wife.”

Salem scrutinized her. “Were ye a lady then, with servants?”

Demelza could not help but smile at the thought of Jud and Prudie. “Two of the most worthless servants to exist! When my husband were but a child, one—Jud—taught taught him to smoke and cheat at cards. I been known to tackle Jud for stealin’ the pie I made fer my husband’s supper! The other,” her throat hitched as Prudie’s face rose in her mind’s eye, “the other were shiftless and hopeless at cooking or cleaning, but over time she became the closest I had to a mother. I could count on ‘er to take my side of things—she would listen to my creenin’ and comfort me.”

“I generally did Jud and Prudie’s chores and cleaned up after them, even after my marriage. Then Jinny came to be my maid. She were a sweet girl, but ‘twas I who taught her how to cook and take care of a house.” Her voice trailed off as memories overtook her. Demelza reached toward some lilies-of-the-valley. _They will make such a pretty bouquet in our bedroom, and they smell so heavenly_ , she thought automatically. Her hand fell as she reminded herself there was no vase, no home in which to display the flowers. _Let the blossoms be, she thought. ‘Tis no sense in picking them to wilt in the wagon._ Demelza sighed at her sudden sense of loss, then steadfastly recalled herself to the present. “With all the problems my husband had with debts, Jeremy and I were but more mouths to feed. I had no way to bring money in for the household. Us leaving has prob’ly lessened Ross’s burden. So this,” she indicated the coins clutched in her hand, “this be the first wages I have earned away from there. Away from him. It feels . . . right good,” she said with satisfaction.

Salem made an unintelligible noise, then retorted. “Sounds though you did more than your share of work, paid or not. I have never understood how labor only be valued if tied to a wage. ‘Twas not always so.” He continued with some bitterness. “Ye have seen yourself this last week how wealthy landowners have fenced off areas that have always been open to travelers. Was a time that my family could wander all over Cornwall and be welcome along any road, but now many landowners be giving their workers the boot and enclosing their lands. Mammon—‘Tis the curse of our times.”

Preoccupied, Demelza made a comforting noise as she weighed her options. “Jeremy and I need nothing right now,” she decided as she retied the pouch. “But the boy be growing like a weed! I mended the little hole that Garrick made in Jeremy’s shirt when he tried to pull him from the stream,” they smiled at the shared memory, “but soon enough the blouse will be outgrown. I think I will save the money against that day.”

“As you please,” Salem answered.

They walked in companionable silence before Salem ventured, “I do understand how important ‘tis to prove oneself. After Tabby died, I worried about Lydie. ‘Tweren’t just about money, but her happiness. She were always a sweet, happy child, and so close to her mamma. Tabby’s death took her smile away. Can her papa’s love be enough?” He sighed. “I still fret for her.”

Demelza laid a slim hand on his forearm. “Ye do a good job, Salem. There will always be a hole where her mamma was, but you are a good papa. Lydie talks about you with such love. I should know,” she added softly. “I lost my mother when I were about Lydie’s age. I did not have the comfort of a father’s love. My father . . . he did not behave as he ought. And then later, I lost my daughter.”

“I do not know that I could bear what ye have lost,” Salem murmured as he gently placed his hand atop hers.

“But ye see,” Demelza became more animated. “Those empty spots where my mother and Julia had been—their loss has driven me to love others all the more. Jeremy do not replace my mother or my daughter, but I treasure him all the more for having loved _them_.” She sought to express her thoughts. “Love is not like money in a purse—only so much can be spent, and no more. It be like blossoms that seed themselves year after year, each time the flowers growing thicker and larger until they threaten to take over the entire yard. The more ye love, the more ye have to love.”

Demelza continued doggedly. “I been thinking on this these last days, since ye and your family took us in. It do hurt to know I lost my husband’s love—I believed myself to be almost mortally wounded. But,” she swallowed, then plunged on, “I would never wish that our love—our marriage—had never been. I be the richer for it.” _Images arose in her mind. The blue dress in the library chest. Ross holding a newly-born Julia, his face lit with wonder. A pair of stockings for Christmas. And yes, even Ross’s arms around her while they stood beside a tiny grave._ Eyes as deep as the ocean stared into Salem’s. “I am the wealthier for having loved, despite what I have lost. And I have my son because of it.” Demelza turned away to hide the sudden tears in her eyes.

She sought to lighten the tone of the conversation. “Perhaps will be the same for Lydie when she is a mother someday.” Salem smiled back at her. “Lydia seems happier since you and Jeremy joined us.” He paused, then added tentatively, “Seems like a true family again.”

_Oh. Oh, Judas. I am still bound to Ross—even if he be with Elizabeth now._ Aloud, she said, “I appreciate that, Salem. I think that Jeremy would miss his father more were you not so kind to him. And Lydie has acted like a sister to my boy since she met him. But though I may be cast off by my husband . . . I still be a wife. In law, and in my heart.”

Salem searched her face. “I understand. Even though she be gone, I still feel married to my Tabby. I think I always will be. In time, though, you and I may decide that we can do more for our children together than we can do alone. For now,” he added briskly, “let us be friends and partners.”

“Aye, Salem. That we are already.”

“Speaking of partnership . . . ,” Salem turned practical, “I was thinking of some way to put Jeremy and Garrick in with the our act. A boy and his dog—audiences would love that. Would ye be willin’?”

_Jeremy? Garrick?_ Demelza laughed uncertainly. “I don’t know, Salem. I do not know that Jeremy is old enough to perform with the troupe. And Garrick . . . he be my oldest friend and a grand one with babies, but . . . Well, all I can say about his talents is that he knows how to stay. At least when I be watching him. Other than that he be a terrible breaker of crockery . . . .”

Her response drifted off as Ross’s gently mocking voice surfaced in her mind. It had been that devastating time when they had sold their household goods to pay the usurious interest on the loan on Nampara. Walking back to the empty house, Garrick gambling happily before them, Ross suddenly teased: _“I wonder what Garrick would fetch on the open market? One overgrown mongrel. Carnivorous . . . . And stealer of pies. Do you suppose there’d be any takers?”_   She shook herself, banishing the bittersweet memory and coming back to the present, to the kind man who stood patiently beside her. “I’m sorry, I were . . .”

“Ye were miles away.” Salem’s eyes twinkled. “Let us see what I can do with Jeremy and Garrick. Trust me; I won’t ask more of them than either can do. Let us go get ready for Penzance.”

They arrived in Penzance later that morning and quickly took their places in the marketplace. Salem busied himself setting up the curtained stage for the Punch and Judy show while Old Davyd prepared Sheba’s little tent with a folding table and three little chairs. As he set up an easel with a sign painted with images of a hand and cards, Davyd told Demelza about the history of the fair. “This fair been held for hundreds of years in Penzance, always opening on the Sunday after Whitsun—they may call it Pentecost where ye are from,” he explained. “People will come for miles around, Mistress Polly. ‘Tis the biggest fair in these parts.”

“As ye can see, Salem be ready to entertain children, and I will be his beater,” he continued. “Sheba be set here in her tent here to read palms and tell fortunes. Later, we will put the dogs through their tricks and ye and the children can work the crowd. Ye and I will entertain the crowd with music this evening. But for now, why don’t ye take the children and see the sights? ‘Twill be fun for all of you. Sheba and I will head out later, after ye return.”

Demelza looked at the two little ones beside her, both bouncing with excitement. “Please, Miss Polly!” pleaded Lydia. “I want to see everything!”

“Please, Mama? Please?”

Demelza could not help but laugh as the children each took a hand and began to tug. “If ye are sure, sir . . .”

Davyd gently frowned at her as he cautioned, “But ye take care, Mistress Polly. There be pickpockets and other people with ill intentions. Especially now, with the great estates forcing workers off and enclosing lands that were once public. In just the little time we been in Penzance, I seen plenty of soldiers, as well as folk who be living rough. A pretty young thing such as yerself . . .”

Demelza shook her head, smiling despite his warning. “I be an Illugan miner’s daughter, sir. I know how to look after myself.”

“I dunno,” Old Davyd still looked troubled. “With yer hair that blacky-red color, ye look like a foreigner, all exotical. People may try to take advantage. Mayhap ye look Spanish . . . ?”

Sheba blew a long _phhhhhhhttt_ through her lips as she plopped into a chair. “With eyes that color? I think not, old man. Mayhap your vision be going.”

Old Davyd looked at Sheba, pained. “Could be northern Spain.” He brightened. “Or maybe a throw-back from a couple of centuries ago. People say many a good-looking Spanish lad were tossed on the shore here from the Great Armada back in the time of Good Queen Bess. Those lads accounted for the look of many a Cornishman.”

Sheba opened her mouth to squabble again as Demelza herded the children away.

She bent over and whispered in Lydia’s ear, “Do they always bicker like that? ‘Tis funnier than . . .” She caught herself as she started to say “than Jud and Prudie.” She finished, “’Tis funnier than a Punch and Judy show.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Lydia leaned over and confided, “By the time we return, Granny Sheba will be sayin’ ye look Spanish and Granda will be tellin’ her ye are the very spit of Cornwall.”

They both laughed as each took one of Jeremy’s hands and waded into the fair. An hour or so later, Demelza and the children made their happy return. Demelza was peeling an orange and popping the sections between the children’s sticky lips. Sheba sat in her little tent, fanning a deck of cards upon the table. Salem, having finished a Punch and Judy skit, was emerging from the little space under the stage as Garrick and the acrobatic canines milled around him.

Lydia ran to her father. “Look, Papa!” She preened as she twirled in front of him. “Mistress Polly bought me a pink ribbon and tied my hair up in it! I look like a lady!” She threw her arms around Salem, then pulled away. “Ew! You be all sweaty!” Salem laughed. “Yes, I know, Lydie. It be hot and cramped under the stage, but I reckon Granda took a good haul from the audience. He’s gone to find some provisions for dinner.” He sobered as he turned to Demelza. “Mistress Polly. I did not mean for you to spend your wages on Lydia. Let me . . .”

“Nay, Salem,” she laughed. “’Twas my pleasure. She has a hair ribbon and Jeremy a plaything; those and an orange cost me but little.” Jeremy leaned his face into Demelza’s skirts while Lydia tried to suppress a yawn. Salem smiled indulgently at Jeremy and at his daughter. “Seems that our pirates are tired from their plunder, ma’am. I’ll take them to the wagon and put them down inside for an afternoon nap. Perhaps ye’d like a little time to look about on your own.”

“Thank ye kindly, sir,” Demelza smiled. “I would enjoy that.”

Salem whistled the little dogs to him and hoisted Jeremy up to his shoulder. “Come along, lass.” Lydie happily trotted beside Salem as she continued to regale him with tales of what she had seen.

Demelza sighed contentedly while Garrick sat at her feet. _When was the last time I have been alone?_ she wondered. _They all be so kind, but there is little opportunity to think my own thoughts, be by my own self. Even at Nampara, I treasured those moments._ She thought of the times Jinny or Prudie had watched Jeremy while he napped. She sometimes slipped out to wander the moor, gathering flowers and singing to herself. More often, she had headed to Nampara’s sandy cove to kick off her shoes and wade in the spume cast up by the wild waves. She would return to Prudie’s scolding.

_Look at yer skirt, Maid! ‘Tis soaked to the knee! And once it dries, it be stiff with salt! Do ye know how hard it is to get clean again?_

_Aye, Prudie, that I do. Seein’ as I do the wash, I know it well!_

Prudie would then change tactics. _Out there in the cold air, in the cold water, with no shoes or stockings—ye’ll catch yer death. Or maybe ye will get knocked down by a wave and end up drowned dead. And then where will Old Prudie be?_

_Havin’ to do her own laundry?_

Prudie would pout for a few minutes, then her lips would begin to curl. Finally, she’d let loose a roar of laughter. _Aye, Maid! And ye know that be a fate worse than death fer Old Prudie!_

Lost in thought, Demelza suddenly realized that a man across the market was staring at her intently. With a shock, she recognized the stout, graying man.

_Judas! Trencrom!_

Demelza whirled about and darted into Sheba’s tent. The elderly woman looked up, startled.

“Child? What is it?”

“I saw a man I know!” Demelza risked a look outside. “Judas! He’s coming this way!”

Sheba rose and pushed Demelza into a chair. “Nothing to be gained but brazen it out. Who is the man? Does he know ye well?”

Demelza tried to calm herself. “Trencrom—a free trader. He dealt with my husband, smuggling French brandy and luxuries into our cove. And six barrels of salt—I think it was six. He does not know me well—I was carrying Jeremy and waddling like a duck when I last saw him. Still, he be coming here!”

Sheba tied a silk scarf around the lower part of Demelza’s face. “Let’s keep him from getting a good look, at least. Let me do the speaking. Sit behind the table and look mysterious.”

There was a scuffling sound at the opening of the tent as a large and sweaty face poked in. “Madam . . . ?”

“Madame Sheba, sir, reader of fortunes and supplier of physicks.”

Trencrom stepped inside the tent, tripping over Garrick. He gawked at Sheba. “Nay, Madam, not ye,” he slurred. “I saw another woman. She looked like someone I know, but I cannot remember . . .”

Both women realized that the free trader was deep in his cups. Demelza began to breath more easily. _Perhaps this is not as disastrous as I feared,_ she thought gratefully.

Sheba drew herself up regally. “Sir. This be my grandson’s wife, and a virtuous woman. I can assure ye that she is no one that ye know.”

Trencrom belched loudly and wiped his hands on his greasy jacket. “I didna mean like that, madam. But I do not like it when I canna place a face. As a businessman, . . .”

“Businessman?” responded Sheba tartly. “Ye mean you are a contrabandist.”

Trencrom drew back. “How . . . what d’ye mean?”

Sheba stared back at Trencom. “There are no secrets within this tent, sir. Are ye here to have yer fortune read? Or do ye need a physick?”

Trencom sat on the chair opposite Demelza. “Yes. Both. But first . . .” He reached toward the scarf around Demelza’s face.

Sheba rapped his knuckles sharply with a fan.

“Ouch!” “My grandson’s wife is . . . Greek. In her culture, married women do not show their faces.”

“But the woman I saw . . .” “Could not have been my grandson’s wife. Ye were probably goggling at someone else and are now confused. This is Madame Pol . . . Pollydora.”

Both women winced at the dreadful name, but the drunken Trencrom accepted it. He slapped some coins on the table.

“So tell me my fortune!”

Sheba spread the cards upside down in front of Demelza. “Madame Pollydora is very talented at sensing what is unknown. Please, my dear, choose a card for the gentleman.”

Demelza blindly seized a card and turned it upward. It showed a man sitting upon a throne.

“Ah, the Emperor,” crooned Sheba. “A strong, masculine card. Ye are a man who is obeyed by many; they look to ye with respect.”

Trencrom preened in satisfaction. “Aye, that would be me.”

“Another card, Pollydora? Thank ye.” Sheba made a show of studying the card. “You see the Chariot? That indicates success . . . perhaps in trading—desirable goods—from another country? Hmmmm . . . I sense . . . brandy! And salt? That doesna’ make sense.”

Trencrom was leaning forward in fascination. “This is good.”

Sheba indicated that she needed another card from Demelza. “Well, all that is in the past. Look here. This is the present. Temperance is inverted. Too much self-indulgence. Alcohol, food, pushing one’s luck.” She shook her head regretfully and she extended her hand. “Another card, Pollydora.”

“Here be the present and the near future. The Wheel of Fortune. What goes up, must come down. Fortunes _change_ ,” she added ominously.

Trencrom’s mouth hung open. A tiny drop of spittle hung from his bottom lip.

Demelza randomly seized another card and presented it to Sheba. The elderly woman hissed dramatically, “ _The Hanged Man!_ ”

Trencrom stood up rapidly, upending the table. Babbling incoherently, he fled the tent. Garrick barked after him.

“Wait!” Sheba called. “Your physick!”

Demelza stared at Sheba for a few moments. “Remind me, ma’am, not to irritate you. That was amazing.”

Sheba snorted. “Ridiculous, you mean. But . . . it was fun.”

The two women stared at each other, then broke into gales of laughter. Demelza wiped her eyes and sputtered, “He is probably still running, afeared the excise men are after him.”

Sheba nodded, “I doubt we will see more of him during the Fair. Still,” she sobered. “’Tis not a good sign that we encountered someone ye know. Perhaps we should continue the story that ye are Salem’s wife. People will be less likely to question your identity.”

Demelza grew serious. “Aye, ma’am. I must ask myself how much longer I can continue to remain here in Cornwall. At some point, I think I must look to taking Jeremy and myself elsewhere. Lancashire and the other mill towns need workers, but I would hate to be cooped up working in a factory—and what of Jeremy? Who would care for him? Maybe he and I should go to London, or even America?” She deflated as she considered her limited options, then resolutely squared her shoulders. “No sense wailing about it. I think I better check on my son now, and get ready to sing with Old Davyd. Thank ye, Ma’am, for coming to my rescue today.” She bobbed a curtsy and stepped back out onto the street.

Sheba sighed as she turned her cards back over and shuffled them about the table. _Times are becoming hard here. Desperate people forced off the land and wandering everywhere, soldiers looking for revolutionaries and law-breakers. Mayhap we all need to look for a sanctuary._ She accidentally knocked a card off the table and leaned over to retrieve it, turning it over the process. She suddenly felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her.   _Death?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long. I followed a few red herrings before this chapter took form. I apologize for some erratic paragraphing--I could not convince the program to let me make a few edits. I will try again later, but want to get this posted now.
> 
> As always, feedback makes this worthwhile. Thank you for taking the time to read this. :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dwight returns to discover what has occurred . . .

“Always talkin’! Never listenin’!”

Zacky’s usually gentle eyes flamed with anger as they bored into Ross’s face.

“If ye’d listen for a change instead of pontificatin’ like some lord in Parliament, ye might learn sumpin of import! Like we was replacin’ that old rotty ladder!”

Ross opened his mouth to defend himself.

“Nay, lad!” thundered Zacky. “Do not even start with me! Let someun’ else have the last word for a change!”

Ross meekly closed his mouth.

“Now, if ye dinna mind, I’ll leave ye to the good doctor. I need to tend to the mine!”  Zacky stomped out of the office.

Dwight finished wrapping the bandage around Ross’s ankle and splint. “He is right, you know,” he said conversationally to Ross. “You do tend to pontificate.” He tied the knot as Ross winced. “A little tight? Excellent. The ankle will need firm support as it heals. A bad sprain can actually be worse than a clean break. Oh, and your wife has mentioned your paracusis to me, as well.”

“Paracusis?”

“It’s a term for an auditory disorder. I believe Demelza described your case as ‘selective hearing.’”

Ross smiled a little. “Yes, that sounds like Demelza.”

“She usually has you dead to rights.”

The smile bled away from Ross’s face. “She does, indeed.”

Dwight soaped his hands and rinsed them in an ewer. “Let’s get you home. I’ll have a couple of miners carry you to a wagon and take you to Nampara.”

“I can ride,” Ross protested.

“No, you will not. You need to be tucked into a bed or onto a divan and have that foot elevated. Absolutely no walking for at least a week or two. Otherwise that ankle will not heal properly and you’ll have even more pain and immobility than you already have.” Seeking to lighten the tone, Dwight added, “I realize this is probably part of your grand plan to convince Demelza of your inability to partner her in dances, but I am serious about the extent of the injury.”

Ross looked up at his friend sharply. _Is it possible he has not yet heard . . . ?_

Dwight continued, oblivious to Ross’s consternation. “I will ride with you to Nampara. I need to talk to Demelza about how to care for you during your convalescence.”

“She . . . is not there.”

“Oh? I did not know. I had just arrived from London when the message came that there was an emergency at the mine. I feared a cave-in—it was a relief to find you had acted with your normal lack of caution.” Dwight grinned, then sobered. “I would prefer that you be under your wife’s care, but I suppose Prudie will do until Demelza’s return.”

“Neither Prudie nor Jud are there, either. They have all gone.”

Dwight deliberately set down the rag he was using to dry his hands and turned to his patient. “Ross. What have you done now?”

_He assumes I am at fault. And rightly so._ “I have behaved very badly, Dwight.”

“Elizabeth, I suppose. That’s the only reason Demelza would have left you.” Dwight’s lips tightened, and Ross could see fury in his eyes. “Poor Demelza. She does not deserve this from you.”

_So Dwight knew of my obsession, too._ “If I could find Demelza, I would beg her forgiveness. But she has fled, and taken Jeremy with her.”

Dwight clipped out his reply, “Can you blame her?”

Ross did not answer, but only shook his head in misery.

Dwight angrily glared at Ross. After a long moment, the fire faded from his eyes. He walked to the window of the small office and stared outside. “Damn it all, I have no room to berate you. You at least loved Elizabeth for years. I destroyed a good man just because I lusted for his wife. I do not even have the excuse of having loved Kerin.”

Silence spun as motes danced in a sunbeam that pierced the gloom. Finally, Dwight spoke again. “Despite your own friendship with Mark Daniels, you helped me through at that terrible time. It is my turn to return the favor. Once you are mobile again, we can search for Demelza and Jeremy.”

Ross closed his eyes, afraid he would weep. “Thank you, my friend.”

Dwight’s voice was compassionate as he added, “Let’s get you to my house—you will need help for a few days. For now, I need to attend to a few patients. Perhaps someone in the village will have news of your family.”

The next few hours were excruciating for Ross. He chafed as two miners carried him to a wagon to be driven to Dwight’s house, where he was unloaded like so much baggage. Once settled on a couch, though, Ross had to admit to being relieved to be away from Nampara, where every room resonated with the absence of his wife and son. As the sun slowly rose then sank in the sky, Ross fretted on the settee, attempting to busy himself with papers from the mine. He dropped all pretense of dealing with the documents upon his friend’s return.

“Dwight! Did you hear anything . . . ?”

“No, Ross. No one seems to know where they are. Or if they do, I am excluded by their code of silence.”

Ross slumped back onto the couch. “I had hoped someone would speak to you.”

“Ross, the villagers have accepted me to a large extent. But some still have hard feelings about Mark. Their loyalty to Demelza—someone they consider one of their own—emphatically trumps their fondness for me. _**If**_ they know anything,” Dwight stressed the conditional nature of his statement, “they did not confide in me.”

He set out some plates, then continued with some hesitation. “I gather that they see your actions as not only a betrayal of Demelza, but of themselves.”

“I had not realized the extent to which the people construed my marriage as a sort of political and social statement.”

Dwight set eating utensils on a small table. “Sometimes, my friend, you are remarkably dense. Are you just now realizing what an earthquake rocked Cornwall when you—a Poldark—married a miner’s daughter who worked as your scullery maid? Many of Cornwall’s elites thought it tantamount to a Jacobin invasion!”

“I knew snobs like the Teagues were shocked,” scoffed Ross. “But why should sensible common people care who I married? What business is our relationship to them?” he added, almost plaintively.

Dwight shook his head as he prepared a tray with two plates and forks. “It is important to them because they _are_ sensible common people. They respect you because you treat them as valuable human beings, despite your station. You have demonstrated that through your dealings with them, your concern for their welfare, your willingness to stand up against the so-called worthies of Cornwall who treat them like something stuck to the bottom of their shoes. And like it or not, the most visible symbol of your respect for their class was when you took a woman of those same people as wife, instead of marrying according to a medieval code of hereditary estates. So yes, they feel betrayed by your recent—indiscretion.”

Ross sighed. “It was not something I planned.”

“Hmmmm.”

Ross looked up sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“No one divulged Demelza’s whereabouts—but some people had plenty to say about other matters. The village gossips were happy to tell me about your visits to the Widow Trenwith. They mentioned mysterious amounts of money that magically appeared at that estate, even while those at Nampara went without. And one letter you received may have carried news of an impending wedding. I suspect George was on your mind that night as much as Elizabeth.”

“Damn it, is there no right of privacy?”

Dwight merely shrugged. “As a rural doctor, I can tell you that little remains confidential in a close-knit community. I had reason to discover that at first hand, as you might remember,” he added with a trace of bitterness.

Ross winced sympathetically at the self-loathing evident in Dwight’s voice. “Yes. I understand.”

Silence fell as the two men pondered their respective transgressions. Dwight roused himself first, opening a small basket and pulling a meat pastry from its depths. “In any case, I suspect that this is a sign that at least some people are ready to forgive you. Mrs. Martin gave me this for our dinner, and asked me to tell you to get well soon.”

Ross felt a lightening of his soul for the first time in days. “Indeed? I have become used to being treated as the local pariah.”

“Evidently, Zacky told her of your accident. She also mentioned somewhat obliquely that you had said something to a miner . . . Johnson? . . . that she said ‘cleared the air.’”

Ross smiled grimly. “Yes. I belted him for talking obscenely about Demelza. Then I made an even bigger impression by taking a shortcut down into the mine via a broken ladder.”

Dwight tried to hide his amusement as he divided the chicken pastry between the two plates. “Well, that does explain Mrs. Martin’s comments. Eat up,” he directed, as he handed Ross his portion. “I gather she did not like Mr. Johnson,” he added.

“He was a pig. I deserve the gossip about me—but the things that bastard said about Demelza . . . ”  He unconsciously fisted his hands.

“Indeed. Well, Mrs. Martin waved off all offer of payment, admonishing that you are to get well and ‘get things back to what they ought’a be.’”

Ross chewed moodily. “That night . . . May 9th . . . I never even thought about Demelza. Much less how anyone else would see it. I only thought about . . . never mind. It is done now, and cannot be undone.”

“No, it cannot. Once broken, a bone will never be unblemished. But it still may be set and mended.” Dwight sighed and reached for a decanter. “I think we both need something stronger than cider tonight.” He poured two large glasses of French brandy and handed one to Ross.

Ross lifted his glass in a silent toast, then drained it.

Dwight raised his eyebrows. “Like that, then? All right, I feel the same. To contraband.” He quickly quaffed his drink and topped off both glasses.

“Ross . . .”

“I know what you will say. How could I treat Demelza that way, why . . .”

“No. Well, yes, of course, but it’s more than just why did you commit adultery. I of all men understand that . . . but you are . . .” Dwight flailed for words.

Ross looked at him curiously as he held out his glass for more brandy. “What are you trying to say?”

Dwight sought his words carefully. “It is just that . . . you are such a Puritan.”

Ross choked on laughter. “I! I think you should look in the mirror, sir.” Dwight shook his head back and forth. “No. I do not mean in little ways, like swearing or drinking. I mean that your sense of right and wrong is inflexible. You are outraged to the bone if someone—especially someone weaker than you—is treated unfairly. You have never spoken to me about the circumstances of your marriage to Demelza—don’t give me that black look, I am not going to trespass upon your precious privacy—but I know that you felt a moral responsibility to marry her, even though you loved Elizabeth. And you have taken that marriage vow seriously for years.”

Ross shrugged. “Ask my cousin, Verity, about the contradictions in my family. She says that Poldarks are all sentimentalists at heart.”

Dwight poured more brandy as he muttered about finding another bottle. “So, you are a one of these new Romantics like Goethe, all storm and passion? ”

“God, no! I am a man of reason, you should know that. I pride myself on my rationalism. Demelza is the sentimental one.”

Dwight snorted. “No. Demelza is the pragmatic one in your marriage. She acknowledges her emotions, but does not obsess on them. Especially those involving situations that cannot be mended.”

Ross pondered the point. “It is true,” he conceded. “She copes with . . . loss . . . far better than do I.”

Dwight pushed his argument. “Exactly! You are the one who broods and will not accept what life deals us as a _fait accompli_.”

Ross glared at his friend with sudden anger. “Is acceptance always a virtue? Are there not injustices that demand that we stand against a capricious universe?”

Dwight sighed. “I know, Ross. But sometimes things just happen. You cannot fight everything.” _Like Julia’s death_. The words hung silently in the air. “You need to forgive,” he added softly. “Forgive and let go.”

Ross’s head dropped toward his chest as the fury drained out of him. “I know. Demelza once told me that I cannot fight all the world—that I can only make my own small corner a fairer place.” He lifted his head to stare at Dwight, his face a rictus of agony, “But how can I do even that without throwing my heart and soul into the fray?”

“I know it is easy for me to advise you,” Dwight responded. “I pray God I never know your pain in losing a child.”

“If that ever happens,” Ross replied, “then you will understand.”

The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Dwight rose and weaved unsteadily toward a side cabinet. “I shall fetch another bottle.” He returned to pour more brandy into each of their glasses. “This is for medicinal purposes only.”

Ross closed one eye to better focus on his friend. “To medicine. And to whichever one of you poured that drink.”

They drained their glasses again before Dwight spoke. “Ross, what on earth were you doing at the mine at such an ungodly hour this morning?”

Ross leaned back his head against a couch pillow. “I had a nightmare. There was no one at home, and I could not get back to sleep.”

Dwight looked at him curiously. “What was the nightmare about?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream I have sometimes.”

Dwight’s curiosity was piqued. “For centuries, people believed dreams were windows into a man’s soul . . .”

Ross made a dismissive noise. “I’d expect a comment like that from a quack like Choake, not a modern man of science.”

“I’m not sure that dreams are totally meaningless,” Dwight persisted. “Admittedly, most dreams are not important. Often dreams rehash what has occurred during the day. For example, while training as a doctor,” he smiled, “I would dream of the medical terms that I had studied that day. Or I would attempt diagnose the most absurd afflictions while asleep. In one memorable dream, I delivered an expectant mother of a chicken.” He laughed at the memory.

“So what is the point of even discussing dreams?” scoffed Ross.

“My point is,” Dwight gestured with the hand holding his glass, causing the brandy to slosh dangerously, “that occasionally, dreams are more than nonsense. Sometimes our minds continue to ponder situations while we sleep, to search for answers. There have been times that I have gone to sleep mystified by a patient’s symptoms, only to awaken with my thoughts cleared and an answer at hand.”

“Not in this case,” Ross retorted. “This nightmare has nothing to do with my life now—it’s just a terrible memory from the war.” He gazed into his glass and came to a decision. “Perhaps you are right, my doctor friend. Maybe it will be better to talk about it. God knows I could never tell Demelza—I never wanted to burden anyone with it. Whenever I had the dream, I would wake her to have . . . company.”

“Company?” Dwight raised his eyebrows.

“Or I would go to the mine early. But you were there in the colonies. You would understand why it haunts me.”

Dwight settled back in his chair, listening attentively.

“You were always stationed  near towns on the coast, were you not?” Ross asked his friend. “I met you at a hospital facility in Portsmouth, after I was wounded.”

“Yes,” replied Dwight.

“Were you ever sent into the interior, toward the Ohio River? Closer to the mountains they call the Appalachians? I think the Americans also call them the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

Dwight shook his head. “I heard the war was brutal there.”

“To put it mildly,” responded Ross grimly. “Swamps in the low lands. Dysentery and malaria. Snakes. Ancient forests. But it was so much more than that.”

Ross paused, then continued. “Forgive me for sounding like a schoolmaster, but you have to understand what it was like there. On the frontier, the War was about more than just colonial independence. The French and English had struggled for years—over a century—over control of that interior. Then there are so many native tribes—the Shawnee, the Mingo, the Delaware, the Cherokee, . . . the list goes on and on. Most of the tribes had sided with the French for centuries, only to find they picked the wrong horse in the last war. So when this Revolution began, most of the tribes made alliances with us—the British—against the colonists who are taking their lands. And sometimes those tribes fought against each other as smaller alliances shifted. It is impossible to keep it all clear.” Ross held his glass out for more brandy, congratulating himself that his hand did not shake as images rose in his mind.

“It was all horrible,” Ross continued conversationally. “Frontiersmen massacred native peoples. The Indians attacked the Americans. Tribes predated on each other. Renegades raped and murdered both—all—sides. And our leaders . . .” he sneered the word, “often encouraged that brutality for their own ends. Certainly you heard of General ‘Hair-buyer’ Hamilton?”

Dwight sat very still. “I heard,” he said carefully, “that General Hamilton denied the charges of paying natives for American scalps.”

“Ah, yes. He did deny doing that,” replied Ross. “Other generals were similarly accused and made the same response. But I know otherwise.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and held the glass out to be refilled.

“Our noble leaders paid bounties on the scalps of hundreds of women and children on the frontier,” Ross said heavily. “It was a profitable trade for degenerates on all sides.”

Dwight shook his head in disbelief. “Surely not, Ross! There are always rumors of atrocities in wartime . . .”

“So, imagine if you will,” Ross pointed unsteadily at his companion as he overrode Dwight’s interjection, “a very young and naïve Cornish boy who thinks he is quite the buccaneer arrives at an outpost tucked on the far western frontier of Virginia. Instead of the seasoned and dangerous man he thinks himself, he is quickly discovering himself to be . . .” he chortled derisively, “ . . . to be a mere pup, as a hardened Irish soldier described him. This boy had planned to cut a dashing figure in his uniform, and impress his friends, relatives, and beloved with his bravery and derring-do. Instead, our boy soldier discovers that this war will not be fought according to chivalrous rules of engagement. Instead, life in this New World is ‘brutish, nasty, and short.’ Or something like that.”

“Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” corrected Dwight. “Thomas Hobbes.”

“All right. It was not solitary, but the other adjectives applied.” Ross sighed, looking back over the years to the young fool he had once been. “God, I feel old now. Anyway, I had only been there for a few weeks when I was directed to the makeshift camp headquarters. There the camp’s leaders were pouring over a map, talking about the most inane matters. How much flour did we have to whiten our wigs? How would we lug the cannons through the forests? Why harsh discipline was to be inflicted on soldiers for tiny infractions. Stupid.”

Ross paused, then continued his tale. “Anyway, Maxwell Harper was there—he was a likeable young captain of my acquaintance. He was always babbling about his fiancé, a local girl named Martha Douglas. He was so besotted. Every opportunity he could, he would show me a her miniature. She was a pretty enough thing—nothing like Elizabeth—but she was made beautiful by her hair. You could see that, even in the picture.”

“Painters can make anyone seem beautiful.”

“Oh, Harper had proof. Martha had snipped one of her tresses and braided an elaborate fob for him to attach to the little painting. Her hair was a most unique color—the color of amber or honey. He loved to show off the painting and fob together.”

Ross sipped at his drink before continuing. “Like so many in the colonies, her family straddled the Loyalist and Independence causes. Her family did not seem to mind her marrying a British officer. After all, we were still one people.”

“Anyway, there I was in this meeting, bored to tears by its inanity, when an orderly came in, obviously distressed. He said that a group of men had come in to camp and that they wanted to be paid their bounties. He then emptied a bag in the middle of the table, asking ‘What am I to do with these, Sirs?” Ross shook his head, visibly disturbed.

“There were so many scalps, so many colors and sizes. One had white hair, another grey, another—probably an Indian child’s—almost black. There was a bald man’s scalp—can you imagine how bizarre that was? But then I heard Harper screaming. The last scalp had at least three or four feet of the most glorious honey-colored hair. ‘Martha! Martha!’ Harper kept shrieking. I stood there and stared; I could not look away from that scalp.”

“My God, Ross.”

Ross tossed back the last of his brandy and set the glass gently on the table. “I think it best that I do not have more tonight.”

“What did you do?”

Ross shrugged. “Nothing, really. Some other men took Harper away, still screaming. Oh, yes, the scalp was Martha’s—she and her family had been massacred. Some said it was Indians, some said it was colonial renegades. In any case, the attackers had taken trophies to claim the bounties our army paid. Harper never really recovered. I heard he remained in America and is very bitter. He has never married.”

Ross gazed into the fire for a long moment before speaking again. “I kept staring at that poor girl’s hair. It seemed as though the world had turned upside down. I heard one officer bickering over how much to pay the scalpers—turns out that to be paid a full bounty, the ears need to be attached—otherwise, . . . you understand.”

Dwight made a noise deep in his throat.

“It was about then that I became very cynical toward the war, my commanders, and authority in general.  Maybe even angry at the universe.  I was not afraid of my own death—that was never the problem. What ate at me was the criminal stupidity, the senseless deaths of poor innocents like Martha. She was just a girl in love with an officer about my age, looking forward to her wedding and her new life. Can you imagine her terror, her pain? I remember thinking, ‘Thank God Elizabeth is in England. I will survive this war, and I will return to her, and the world will be well again.’ That image of Elizabeth is what kept me alive and sane for the rest of that bloody, foolish war. She became almost a religious icon to me—an image of all that is good and pure and holy. And then to return to find she was to marry Francis,” he added bitterly.

A deep silence fell before Ross spoke again. “So to answer your question, my friend, that is my nightmare. Night after night, I am in that Virginia frontier headquarters, half-listening to inane chatter about keeping up appearances. Harper is there smiling at his hair fob; in comes the orderly with his bag. And then I see Martha’s scalp spill onto the table.” Ross sighed, then continued. “This is not the kind of memory one shares with others at the breakfast table, so you are the first to hear it. But this last time I had the dream—last night—“ Ross mopped his face on his sleeve, “it was not Martha Douglas’s hair that fell out of the bag. It was Demelza’s. Her beautiful mop of red curls. And I woke myself screaming.”

“My God, Ross! That’s dreadful!”

Ross stared bleakly at his friend. “I am terrified for her and Jeremy. What if they are lost or frightened? What if someone hurts. . .”

“Ross, this is Cornwall, not the American wilderness. I am sure they are fine.”

Ross shook his head, grim-faced. “There is evil everywhere, my friend. And sometimes it is within ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should let this chapter speak for itself . . . but I'm not. So here's where I explain how this story developed.
> 
> Ross joined the military in 1780 and went to Virginia. He returned in 1783 at the end of the War, scarred physically and (I believe) emotionally. Thus his obsession with Elizabeth.
> 
> The problem is that everything was over except the shouting by 1781. On October 19, 1781, General Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown. The war did not officially end for another two years, primarily because of squabbling among the major players over the treaty. (And arguing among the northern and southern American delegates themselves, who wanted different concessions . . . cue the Civil War. But I digress).
> 
> That means that Ross didn't have much time to experience the war--unless he witnessed the brutality of the frontier. The American frontier was no place for sissies like myself. It is often romanticized, but was truly a place characterized by anomie on many levels. The area where Ross would have been was an international playground where the colonists and native peoples were locked in a to-the-death struggle, made more volatile by British, French, and even Spanish interests (in the South).   
> Much has been made of the who-started-scalping issue; suffice it to say that by the late 18th century, it was practiced by many peoples in the Americas. 
> 
> "Hair Buyer" Henry Hamilton was a real British general who was in the Ohio River Valley area during the Revolution. He was not the only British general accused of this practice--and non-Brits paid for scalps, too. For Martha Douglas, I cheerfully appropriated the story of the historical Jane McCrae, who was a young colonial woman engaged to a British soldier. She was captured, murdered, and scalped in what is now upstate New York in 1777, purportedly by an ally of General John Burgoyne. At least that was the story made infamous at the time, when her death and mutilation inflamed a fledgling nation. And yes, the story details that her fiance, David Jones, identified her scalp under much the same circumstances as in Ross's story. 
> 
> And the bit about ears on scalps being required for a full bounty . . . That's true, too. 
> 
> Anyway, that's my back story on why young Ross became so OCD over Elizabeth. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I have NEVER written fiction, either original or fanfiction. Please, please leave feedback. Thank you!


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